Reconnaissance
by Albernheit
Summary: Or how to find one's way in a new world when secrets contain more secrets and trust is a questionable habit. AU, begins at the end of CoS
1. Time, rippled by an unexpected stone

_The board and figures belong to Ms Rowling. I am trying to play with a slightly different set of rules. _

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><p><em>Chapter -1<em>

**_Before the beginning _****_s_****_omething has to end_**

Around the stone life and time flow endlessly. Sometimes the stream is so fast that it flashes in all colours and in black. Sometimes it flows slowly, so slow that the different colours seem like heavy braids. To the stone, the most interesting of all is that which flashes as pure, unbroken light.

One stone is encased in more stones, and the stones around that lone stone pulsate, individually and together, and the pulse is a rhythm, and in the rhythm the stones are merging with each other and with the pure light.

The stones sing. One stone listens, though after a while it starts wondering how it does that. The stones twinkle with light and the one stone looks at it, but then it wonders: With which eyes?

And the singing stones laugh. The light breaks into all the colours of delight and the thing that flows is many things, frozen on the ever dancing ground.

Waiting. For the stone to ask what or who it is that puts these questions. And for all the colours of delight to explode into the swirling particles of pure ecstasy, to rain into the now still lake at the feet of the pulsating stones, the frozen mass of all living things that have ever been to Hogwarts Castle. Eliciting response, not so much for the actual question but for the pure, concentrated inquisitiveness behind it, the relentless mind of Miss Hermione Granger, cut away by petrification, looking for a way to return, a single drop of determined awareness navigating the endless dream of the stones that are Hogwarts Castle.

Petrification, according to wizarding wisdom, turns living beings into soulless objects by separating them – mysteriously and, in theory, temporarily – from their souls. Wizards have debated whether petrification implies the existence of animal souls, as animals have been known to have been petrified and revived. During these discussions the term 'animals' has been signifying all sorts of beings. Sometimes it would include magical creatures, sometimes it wouldn't. These discussions have not been conclusive.

Wizards have never questioned their concept of soul, or why it should be the humanoid Mandrake that can, via its own death, restore a lost soul to its original container. Wizardkind would have been woefully unprepared for what Hermione Granger had been accomplishing in her deep, soulless sleep. Happily, discovery had been prevented by the existence of a handy remedy.

Sadly, that will not always be the case. Sooner or later, discovery and innovation is bound to happen. Poor Wizardkind.

**O**

The Mandrake Restorative Potion awakes Hermione to a world, it seems, of excitement. The Heir of Slytherin has been discovered! Harry saved Ginny! Harry killed a basilisk! Harry did this, did that, and Harry – generally – saved the day. Ron was there, too! So exciting! So ...heroic!

Hermione is busy being excited, happy and proud of her friends. Did I mention how excited she is? She is buzzing through the castle like a one-person-beehive, listening, taking notes, reading and researching. Yes, researching. How else is she to comprehend the events of the last months, _really_ understand what happened to her friends and herself? Hermione is buzzing, for the school year has ended, and tomorrow they'll be leaving for two months, and there are no books on magical beasts to be found in her local library, or even in the British Library. Or indeed, anywhere outside Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic, and the libraries of a couple of old pureblood families. Henceforth the need for copious notes, to be taken in a hurry and examined later at her leisure.

During the end-of-year feast she will hear an older student talk about book-copying spells. She will smack herself on the forehead and manage to give herself quite a nasty bruise. This is a first.

"I've been waiting for that from the first day of first year," Ron snickers. Harry snickers too, but he also accompanies Hermione to Madam Pomfrey's. Obviously, Hermione can't startle her parents with a hand-shaped bruise on her face. They will worry. They might ask what led to it. Questions! Their questions might lead to more questions, and... No, questions must me avoided at all cost. Her parents, being parents, won't understand that it was just a harmless little spell of petrification, will they? No they won't. They will be anxious, even though she is perfectly fine. They worry a lot, already, but that's because they simply don't understand the magical world, despite Hermione's many attempts to explain everything and ...oh, it's all so complicated!

Madam Pomfrey gives Hermione an ointment for her forehead and a light calming potion for the smoke rising out of her ears. Harry, more to the point, offers his last few feet of parchment for more notes and his invisibility cloak for a last clandestine night-time stint into the library, causing Hermione to hug him very tightly.

See, she tells herself, this is why they mustn't worry. Meaning her parents. She has friends here in Hogwarts, real friends who really understand her and her interests. Meaning her obsessions. Well. Harry does, but Ron does, too. Deep down. Really. Anyway! Where was she? Ah! Notes, more notes, and maybe copying a book or two? That spell those guys mentioned at dinner can't be too hard, can it? And it is bound to be in Marian Knottyknee's _Book of Useful Spells for the Diligent Student_, to be found in the Restricted Section (because of some kind of complicated legal agreement necessary to avoid the defrauding of hard-working authors and even harder-working publishers through the use of the very spell she is interested in, preposterous, really, though interesting, from a legal point of view, and...)

Harry's helpfulness extends to accompanying Hermione on her highly illegal stroll, holding an enchanted lantern, looking over his shoulder for other visitors and hm-ing encouragingly in appropriately timed intervals. Privately he is just happy that his friend is back among the living and buzzing. Holding a lantern instead of catching some sleep is nothing, really. He has two long months ahead of him, and while there will be many chores for him to do, there will be even more boredom and staring-at-the-walls-of-his-room. No, Harry can sleep later, Harry thinks, fondly and with more than a little melancholy. Tiredly he leans into the next wall.

Never noticing – and how could he notice? – the many little hearts that start beating a little faster, a little gayer for him. Start singing the melancholy away from him, start drawing the exhaustion out of his body. Stone remembers. Remembers the scrap of colourful flowing human fog that had become a stone, that had then been turned into a human being. A new one, with a special tiny heart, that stone now can read and care for. Care for its cares and friends. And so Harry rests while smiling indulgently at his friend. Who is buzzing happily through the silent night.

_i__n the Hogwarts Express__:_

"What do you mean by saying he had put his memories into his diary?"

This was the second time Hermione has asked that and her increasing agitation made Harry sighs: "He had found a way to use his diary as a recorder for some of his memories. And the diary could play them, sort of, like a video, only a very aggressive one. Does that make more sense to you?"

"Harry what's a vi-"

"Not now!"

Ron jumps in his seat. Hermione looks ready to breathe fire.

"Was it a bad question?" he asks timidly.

Hermione rolls her eyes: "No, Ronald."

Ron shudders. His full name and in _that_ tone of voice. He moves a bit away from her, but Hermione does not snap at him again. Instead she closes her eyes and takes two deep breaths.

"No, Ron. I will tell you what a video is but first I need to understand how Tom Riddle managed to charm his diary like that. We have finished our second year and I have never heard anything remotely like it. Never. And Dumbledore has told Harry that Riddle had accomplished this by the time he was sixteen."

"I see," says Harry, who had been beginning to wonder about her mood, if truth be told. "But that was all that Dumbledore told me."

"But that doesn't make sense Harry! Do you remember the exact words he used?"

Ron: "But Hermione, it's probably the same spell that is used on pictures"

Harry: "That was as exact as I remember it right now. Anyway, why all that fuss?"

Hermione closes her eyes again and takes several deep breaths.

"All right. I'll say it really slowly. First, pictures have no, and I repeat no capacity whatsoever to interact with the world outside. The one exception are the portraits of dead wizards, and both Flitwick and McGonagall assured me that the death of the portrayed person is an _absolute prerequisite_ for that level of interactivity. You see, I've spend a lot of time researching them during our first year, I even bought several books on the topic in Diagon Alley, because they fascinated me so. Also, it is not possible to make a wizarding portrait if you do not take very elaborate precautions _before_ the witch or wizard dies. I asked about that because I wondered if it would be possible to make a portrait of a deceased person after their death, so that one could speak with them. Really speak to them, the way the headmasters of Hogwarts can consult with the portraits of their predecessors that are to be in the headmaster's office."

"He consults with them?" asks Harry who, unlike her, has been in the Headmaster's office. "How do you know that?"

"It says so in _Hogwarts, a History_, Harry. _And_ Flitwick told me that you cannot create portraits by way of necromancy."

"Ugh, Hermione! Flitwick was telling you about necromancy? That's really dark magic!"

"Yes Ronald. I surmised that much. And Flitwick mentioned it, he didn't teach it."

The full name again, and she is speaking extra slowly for Ron. Who is bit slow today. Harry hastens to distract Hermione from Ron, who seems to have forgotten proper procedure for her more inquisitive moods: "So portraits can only move and talk."

"Within limits. A portrait cannot visit every other portrait in the world, not even every other magical portrait."

"And with all that extra research, which you, if I may point that out, did during your holidays, you know, taht time of the year when you are supposed to relax, you found nothing that explains Riddle's diary."

Hermione blushes, and for some reason she looks very happy with herself. Could she be happy that he had noticed that she had spent her bloody holidays studying, Harry wonders. He had pointed that out to irk her, because, well, all her huffing and puffing? Her general air of being misunderstood ? It is grating on his nerves. A little.

"Nothing at all. I did find a book on memory preservation and pensieves, though."

"On what?"

"Pensieves, Ron. Rare, intricate and unbelievably expensive magical items that can be used when you want to share a memory with someone else. You extract the memory in liquid form – the process is not as bad as it sounds – and put it into a special magical basin, and then you kind of go into that basin and land inside the memory, and see it for yourself. Like stepping into a movie," she tells Harry. "You only see and hear, and you can't change a thing. And they are rare and expensive and it take whole teams of specialist wizards to create one. Also, I did only skim that book, but I did get the impression that they are not considered absolutely reliable. For example, you cannot use pensieved memories in court."

Harry nodded silently. He had seen Hermione researching, had kept her company for some of that time, had fetched her books and even copied portions of text for her. And yet he was surprised how much she had found out about what had to be pretty advanced magic.

"Hermione, did you understand how all of that stuff works?"

He asked quietly and is glad to see her shaking her head quite energetically: "No, not at all. I have detailed timetables that should take me there over the course of the next few years. In some of these subjects, not in all. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall were very helpful, really."

Hearing that Ron wisely chooses to bite his tongue rather than say what he is thinking.

"Could one person extract their memories alone from their head

"Apparently yes. But you might loose them in the process, and what that would do to your personality is everyone's guess."

"Hm. I don't see Riddle letting go of his memories, and he certainly did not turn any less bloodthirsty after he made the diary. More, if anything." Harry mused, now more to himself. He hated Tom Riddle with all his heart. For what he had done to his parents, for what his damn shadow had nearly done to Ginny. But hating him was an emotion. This emotion had caused him, Harry, to fight Riddle twice already. He knew he would fight him again if need be. And here was his friend, trying to ...what?

"Know thy enemy." Ron says suddenly.

"What," he said, when both his friends turned to stare at him as if he had sprouted a second head: "It makes sense. It is like chess." he added, as if that explained everything.

It did, Harry thought. It did.

"Is that what you meant Hermione? Why it means so much to you?" he asked, quieter than ever.

Hermione nodded, looking at her hands.

"Dumbledore said that Tom Riddle was the most brilliant student ever to pass through Hogwarts."

"Really?" Hermione asks. "It makes sense, I suppose, but-".

Harry guesses that Hermione doesn't like hearing that brilliant students can turn into murderous monsters, but this one, he knows, was brilliant and did: "Yes. Come to think of it, Olivander said something similar, too. When I got my wand. Apparently he sold Riddle his first wand, too."

Hermione looks unhappy but convinced.

"Blimey," says Ron. "How old is Olivander?"

_at the Granger home__:_

Hermione hears somebody calling her name and looked up from her current book.

"Mum? Did you say something?"

Her mother doesn't answer. Maybe she did not hear her. Reluctantly, Hermione gets up from her bed and walks over to her open window. Her mother, however, has not called her from the garden. Which is weird, because her voice sounded quite clear, and unless she was in her studio next to Hermione's bedroom- Well, is she? No, she isn't. Hermione goes down the stairs and into the living room. Empty, but there are books lying open on the coffee table, Which means that her mother – an exemplary tidy and well-organised woman – was in this room and has only left for a moment. Unless... Did called for Hermione and went then to the front garden, assuming that her daughter has heard her calling and is coming after her? Hermione goes to the front door, but before she can opened it she hears sound coming from the kitchen. There her mother is. She's cooking.

Is that lasagna? Oh, no. Lasagna is a Bad Sign in the Granger household: "Mum? Are you all right? Do you need help?" Hermione can't fight the rising panic. There is something disquieting about the way her mother stands there. Hermione tries to regain control. Why is it disquieting, she asks herself.

Mum's hands are barely moving. She is just standing there, doing nothing. She has forgotten her books.

"Mum," Hermione asks worriedly. "Mum, what's the matter?"

"What? Oh, honey, it's you. Sorry, I got a bit lost in my thoughts for a moment. Do you want something?"

"Oh no, not at all," Hermione replies hurriedly. Ever so relieved that (the presence of the well-established danger signs of untidiness and lasagna notwithstanding) her mother seems to be in a good mood.

"I thought I'd heard you calling me, to tell you the truth, but I must have dozed off."

"Oh honey, were you reading again? You should really spend more time outside, you are studying hard enough while you are at school. Relax a little. Don't you want to call one of your old- No, you wouldn't, would you? Call one of your former classmates and go out with them?"

"I'd rather not, mum. They always want to talk about school and guys there and I am such a rotten liar. I will let something slip and then- Well, you know."

"Yes, yes, your statute of secrecy. I know. To be honest, honey, if you weren't clearly happy there..."

She trails of, but after a moment she smiles again and hugs her daughter:

"Go back to your books. Don't mind me, I am a bit sentimental today."

Hermione grins: "I expect the Moon is retrograde."

"Actually, it's the unicorns of Mars. They are breeding."

Mother and daughter share a Look. Then they both start giggling. Hermione is starting Divination this year, and for the first time since enrolling at Hogwarts she is less than enchanted with a subject.

"I expect you are right as usual, honey. Go and consult your charts and tell me what we can do about the inconsiderate behaviour of Martian semi-equine population."

Hermione snorts: "Right. I think I will just call the Death Star. I expect that Darth Vader will be happy to help with a unicorn pest."

Evelyn Granger has finally regained control of herself and the strangely sentimental mood that was plaguing her today: "Hermione, it doesn't make sense now, but I am sure that once you meet your Divination teacher they will be able to properly explain everything. Some subjects need expert introduction. Now, leave the kitchen. I need to fry the aubergine."

"Really? Aren't you cooking lasagna?"

"It's vegetarian. I had it at Winnie's shortly before you returned from school. You'll like it, you'll see."

"I know I will,"Hermione reassures her. "I like aubergines."

Hermione is not at all keen to return to the topic of Hogwarts and the fact that she's spending most of the year away from her family, so she hugs her mother and leaves But she pauses in the living room to take the books from the coffee table and return them to their proper places. If her mother is already over the kind of mood that could make her leave things lying around, then it's better to make sure that there are as few external reminders of it as possible.

Then she returns to her book on Romanesque monastic architecture and her musings on the burning of holes into the heads of recalcitrant bishops as a means of persuasion. It's unsettling. She has heard about 'fighting fire with fire'; fighting Lucifer might just have ruined St. Michael's character for eternity.

_interlude set in stone:_

_Back again. Back, back, back. Returned. Proper places for everything, all things, thoughts in proper places. Proper, original, natural. Back. Where he belongs._

Harry is peacefully asleep. He spend almost three weeks at the Burrow. Three very happy weeks. He found he liked every single member of the Weasley family he had met so far, and he is sure that Bill and Charlie (the two he had not met yet) are just as cool as Ginny claims they are. Even Percy came unstuck this summer, especially after Harry asked him for help with Potions and Charms. Last year's finals hadn't gone too bad, really, but Harry felt that a little revision during his holidays would take him a long way. He is taking two electives this year, after all, which means less time altogether.

During the Welcoming Feast it transpired that Hermione, unable to choose among the proffered riches, is taking all four, actually causing Ron to swallow before pointing out that that wasn't possible, technically speaking.

Harry spend several happy hours of his stey at the Burrow trying to explain muggle technology to Mr Weasley. Ron mostly avoided those sessions but he has learned the expression 'technically speaking' and warmed to it. Harry didn't press Hermione for explanations. If the portraits could talk and the stairs could move around, he reasoned with himself, then Hermione can be at two places at once. The portraits, now. The portraits... Seeing them again had made him realise how much he really missed the castle.

_Back again, back again, back again. Back where balance could be restored, would be restored. Balance, harmony with the proper beat of her own heart._

Hermione is dreaming. In her dreams she is examining gaudy strands of magnetism. She is to choose colours and patterns for a tapestry. The patterns are served as sparky drinks in tall leafy glasses. Nearby stands an intense dark faun. He is trying to engage her in a discussion about fugues.

Hermione turns around in her bed, disturbing her new cat's meditation on his new human's friends and what to do about them. And all around her the stone keep beating their song, beating and beating, driving the hungry ghost back out of her mind.

_a discussion on absent persons and their motives:_

"What do you mean he hasn't come back?" Harry very nearly shouts.

"Harry, please don't shout at me. I meant that Malfoy wasn't on the train yesterday and didn't arrive in any other way, either. He simply hasn't come back yet."

"Yet? It's the second day of September! School's started yesterday."

"Yes Ron. Thank you for that very concise summary."

"We wouldn't have noticed otherwise."

"Seeing as Hermione here just said it."

"Never mind that we wouldn't have found out what half-chewed sausages look like."

"True, Gred."

"Isn't it, Forge?"

Ron gapes as his brothers who are currently taking place on both sides of Hermione. Fred / George reaches across the table and touches Ron's chin with one finger:

"It's not responding, Forge. Maybe we should get him to Pomfrey."

"Maybe we should hex it."

"Maybe we should wire it."

Ron's jaw snaps shut.

"Hello, Fred, George, " Hermione greets them happily. She chose the place opposite Harry, not Ron, but somehow her gaze found the wrong direction at the right time. It must be akin to the sick fascination of traffic crashes, she supposes.

"Was Mr Weasley entertaining you with gory stories about muggles?"

"The wiring, you mean? That was young Harry here." George says, sounding proud of Harry's foray into proper, as he sees it, Weasley-ness. "Dad was fascinated, though."

"Even Mom was."

"Makes you wonder about the things that you never wanted to know about your parents."

"Somehow they always trick you in thinking this way."

"Which is why you two never think," Ron says spitefully.

"A retort!"

"From our little brother!"

"Do you think he's growing up?"

"Our own little Ronniekinns!"

"You don't happen to know anything about Malfoy's disappearance, do you?" asks Hermione, who is still in the trajectory of Ron's mouth and is getting worried. And now the twins are grinning over her head, she is sure of it. Can't they stop teasing Ron? Those sausages will not get out of her hair easily!

"We know that neither his friends nor his Head of House were expecting him yesterday," George says meaningfully.

"If you will look over you'll see that his usual place is occupied, so they do not expect him today, either."

"Miss Greengrass wasn't in the train yesterday and Miss Parkinson had hysterics. Quite impressive ones, we heard, considering her young age and lack of practice. But Greengrass was just sick and arrived by coach an hour ago."

"That means that they didn't both go to the same place?" asks Harry.

"That means that no-one knows where Malfoy is, or they would not have connected his absence with Daphne's."

Hermione considers their reasoning and finds it sound.

"He could have changed school,"she suggests. "After all, the muggleborns are all still safe and sound, Dumbledore ist still headmaster and Malfoy Senior is no longer on the board of governors. That's two projects that went wrong last year and one mishap on top. From what I've heard about Malfoy Senior he is not the type to stay when he doesn't have control."

"From what our father says he is not one to loose control. He tends to have enough money to buy it, if not from one source then from another," Ginny comments grimly.

Harry smiles at her and Ginny, instead of blushing, simply smiles back. The three weeks he spend at the Burrow have helped her to relax around him, Hermione thinks. But how is Ginny dealing with last year's events, she wonders. Is there counseling in the wizarding world? She cannot picture it, but she has not been here for long, and, let's face it, she is mostly at school. Hermione did look for books on society, habits, etiquette, a tour guide, as it were, for muggle-borns. It was the first thing the – generally bookish – Grangers looked for. The closest thing she found is a language-spell and travel guide on magical Britain. Purchased in Paris, not London. Other than that her only resource were books such as _Hogwarts, a History_, which actually mentions many useful things en passant.

"He is good at rebounding, isn't he?" Harry says thoughtfully. "He claimed having been cursed by Voldemort and got away with it, from what your father says."

"Yes," Ginny hisses, and falls silent again.

"Maybe he went to that place where they learn Dark Magic. What was it's name?" Ron asks Fred.

"Durmstrang? Not Malfoy! They encourage the students to ambush each other and fight between classes, there," George says dismissively.

"Exactly!" Ron says. "That would be perfect for Malfoy! He's always attacking people!"

"Malfoy insults people from a safe distance and then complains to Snape. They will eat him alive at Durmstrang."

"Are you sure about the fighting," Hermione asks doubtfully. Sure, wizards were robust (and so was their world view, sometimes) but constant ambushes in the corridors? Who could survive that?

"As sure as we can be. They say they do themselves, and they are proud of their discipline there, as they call it."

"Malfoy's reflexes weren't bad and he's fast when he wants." Harry interjects. "He plays Seeker, after all. He could have hired dueling tutors for the holidays if he wanted to go to that school."

"He'll need more than a holiday to learn watching his back," Fred says decisively. "Here he had his Quiddich teammates or Snape or his mini-goons for that, and they are all still here. We reckon it's got to do with Black. His escape changed something. They say he was You-know-who's right-hand man. Malfoy Senior might be frightened what he will tell when they catch him."

"Black won't have a chance to talk. The Dementors have been ordered to kiss him at sight. That's why they are here." Hermione says.

Harry draws a sharp breath. George whistles. Hermione realises what she had just said. This is so bad.

_a discussion on presence of mind:_

"Relax, Hermione," Harry says for what felt like the tenth time in so many minutes. In truth it is closer to ten times in one hour; even persons with Hermione-grade nervousness need time to build up enough steam to get their nervousness noticed by others, but Harry, tired after the first lessons of the year and desperately wishing he could concentrate on lunch is in no mood to deal with even a tenth of her nerves.

"But Hagrid has no experience with teaching! He became a gamekeeper after his OWLs! What if he-"

"What if doesn't get it right without your help? You have no experience with teaching either, Hermione," Ron observes. Hermione scowls Harry grins. Ron, having imparted wisdom and seen that it was good, turns his attention to his other neighbour: "Hey, pass the sausages!"

"What I am trying to say is that Hagrid has been minding dangerous animals for fifty years."

"Which is what the gamekeepers of Hogwarts do, Hermione," Harry points out.

"The thing is, minding animals doesn't require you to talk to them, or to explain things to them, or to plan lessons for them."

"I'm sure that Hagrid knows the difference between animals and pupils," Harry answers impatiently. There was no other way to put it: this discussion was getting on his nerves. Extremely so. Hagrid did fetch him from the hut the Dursleys were hiding two years ago. He showed Harry Diagon Alley! He is great with kids!

Hermione glances at Ron for support, but Ron is – noisily – occupied: "Does he? Then why did he send you and Ron to the acromantula?" she asks under her breath.

"He expected them to help us! He couldn't know that they were too afraid to speak of the basilisk!"

"Harry! They tried to eat you and Ron!"

Harry scowled mutinously. Hagrid had not meant for that to happen. What was Hermione thinking?

"Harry, I know that Hagrid did not mean to endanger you. I am trying to explain that he may be suffering from a lack of judgment when it comes to dangerous creatures. As he thought that since the acromantula didn't hurt him they would not hurt his friends, either."

"But he won't take us to the Forbidden Forest, will he?" Harry hissed. "We will be staying close to the castle, not going into the forest! And he will be there, too. We will be perfectly safe with him."

"Harry, did your copy of the Monster Book of Monsters try to bite you?"

Harry pauses, but only for a moment: "It did. But-"

"Wait, please. Do you remember Professor Dumbledore's exact words when he announced that Hagrid was the new Care of Magical Creatures Professor?"

Harry considers that for a moment: "He said that Professor what's-his-name, Kettleburn, had retired."

"And what else?"

"Hermione, what's the point of these questions? Everyone knows that Professor Dumbledore says strange things! Don't you remember how he opened the welcome dinner in our first year?"

"Harry, please. What did Professor Dumbledore say yesterday at the Welcoming Feast? I know you remember it."

"All right, all right. He said that Professor Kettleburn decided to retire while he had an arm and a leg left. Words to that effect." He scowls for a moment: "Hagrid won't have that problem. Nothing short of a dragon will impress Hagrid. Fluffy was his pet, for goodness sake."

_"Exactly Harry. _Would _you_ consider Fluffy a pet? Would _you_ want a dragon of your own?"

"No. I wouldn't . What are you trying to say?"

"Harry. Hagrid is extraordinarily strong and tall and, I assume, tough. He can carry whole trees, wrestle giant three-headed dogs and spend time in the Forbiden Forest without a magic wand. On the other hand, he forgot to inform Flourish and Blotts how to handle the book he had them order, and he certainly did not consider that his pal Aragog eats mammals. We know that he is a very good person, but do you really think that he is capable of thinking something through?"

"You are trying to say that Hagrid might make mistakes. Unintentionally, that is. And that that might lead to dangerous situations. And you want us to talk to him and try to make him tell us about his lessons in advance so that we can guarantee that that does not happen?"

Hermione winces: "No, I mean yes. Look, I know that we do not know anything about Magical Creatures, but maybe we can talk Hagrid into being careful when he plans his lessons. Remind him that the rest of us aren't some sort of giant, and so on."

Harry smiles despite himself. Hermione is just worried, and while he's rapidly coming to resent Hermione's brand of worry, he can see that she's not entirely wrong.

"And consider this," Hermione adds: "We might be able to give him tips on how to make a lesson ...attractive. We are the pupils here, after all. And we want him to be a popular teacher, now that he's got his dream job, don't we?"

"You are right Hermione. We want Hagrid to be popular. He deserves it."

"Exactly," Hermione says relieved. "He deserves this, and he shouldn't loose it because he forgot some small detail. Something we could have told him, if we'd known his plans beforehand."

Harry looks thoughtful: "Something small, right. Yes, we can help him with that. All right, we'll go to Hagrid's directly after lessons today."

Hermiome sighs: "Let's do that."

Harry looks sideways at her: "Do you have time for that with that insane schedule of yours?"

Hermione smiles: "I'll make time, don't worry about me. This is important, after all."

"If you say so."

Harry's trying not to get angry again and failing. Professor Dumbledore explained to him why he had to go the Burrow during summer; instead of visiting Hermione and studying with her as they had intended. He had explained why it was important not to ask Hermione about it, and that she would speak about her family as soon as she was ready, but... Here she is, pretending that nothing happened during the summer and blithely embarking on a new help-a-friend project. And then it will become too much and she'll ditch this one, too, he thinks. Possibly when Hagrid will have started relying on her. What then, he wants to shout: "Maybe we should just leave it alone. We are just pupils, and Professor Dumbledore would not have chosen Hagrid as a teacher if he thought that Hagrid would be careless."

Hermione feels her self-control dissolve. And she has tried so hard to stay calm! Hagrid has already been careless! He send Ron And Harry to the acromantula! The assistant at F&B had cried when she had asked for the book!

Calmly she says the worst possible thing: "Professor Dumbledore trusts Snape to teach, Harry."

And Harry explodes: "And what is that supposed to mean? Do you think that Hagrid is going to turn into an ass like Snape, or that Dumbledore is careless and needs your help? Because you really need to have your mind checked if you think that, Hermione!"

They finish lunch in uncomfortable silence.

_monologue, internal:_

What happened, Hermione wonders, again and again Because something did happen. Something had happened to Harry during his holidays, but what? But Harry spent the holidays with the Weasleys! The Burrow had to be safe!

Something creeps into her mind. Something cold. What did she just say, right now, or think – right now, one moment ago! – that is wrong? Which part of her memory is deceiving-

(Here Hermione's thoughts jump like a needle over a bent record.)

They are now three weeks into the school year, not even half-way to Halloween, and the shit is already hitting the fan; though Hermione does not know that expression and wouldn't use it if she did. Obviously. Still, this offensive substance is provided in ample supply, and it is coming from several directions at once. One of those directions is Hogsmeade and the impending weekends there. Upon realising that Harry would not be allowed to leave the castle with his friends the treat had turned sour, and not in good way. It's funny: Hermione had actually expected that that matter would somehow be put right. Because it isn't right that a thirteen year old boy – who has done so much for others – has to stay behind while his friends are going out to amuse themselves. That is punishment. And for what? For being a nice person, or maybe for being insanely brave? So his relatives did sign the permission. What was wrong with a little reward, privately given, for saving the life of a fellow student?

Hermione, firmly convicted of the righteousness of her little cause had decided to pursue the matter. Professor McGonagall squashed her righteousness in the bud by springing a deranged and insanely powerful prison escapee on her. No, Hermione does_ not_ want one of her two best friends to get killed by a maniac, but-

There has to be an intelligent solution, but she, big brain and attitude notwithstanding, is not seeing it. She has even tried to consult with Ron. Unfortunately, these days Ron is mostly interested in conveying his worries for his pet. Honestly! Crookshanks is living in her dormitory – to the utter delight of Lavender and Parvati – and Scabbers in Ron's. No problem there! But no, Ron insists that her cat 'has it', as he will so irrationally put it, for his stupid, smelly pet rat. Hermione doubts that. Really, why would a cat with three adoring caregivers go after a smelly old rat?

_Because cats eat rats_, a portion of her mind agrees sensibly. Hermione throws a boot at it. Cats eat birds, too, yet Crookshanks has never so much as glanced into the direction of the owls that were supplying her dorm-mates with letters from home, magazines, and treats for Crookshanks.

The sensible voice evades the boot and comes back for more: _But the birds are useful, whereas Scabbers is just a smelly old rat_.

She_ ha__s_ to agree with that. Who knew, maybe her darling cat is objecting to the existence of such a useless animal? _An unhygienic useless animal_, if the sensible voice might add. She should simply get Scabbers from the boys' dormitory herself and give him to Crookshanks. It would resolve one of her troubles and it's not as if Ron's behaviour could get any worse.

Where did that come from, Hermione wonders. Did I really just consider using a friend's pet as a snack for my cat? She shakes her head. She's just tense. A very demanding schedule, tense friends, troubled sleep. It will pass. But in the meantime she really needs to discipline her mind.

...which is the opposite of what she is being taught to do in Divination. Professor Trelawney wants her to _broaden_ her mind, to expand it, to stop clouding her inner eye! Hermione hisses a few choice words. The long-awaited professorial help has turned into a professorial joke that mutters about death omen and smells like too much cooking brandy.

_finally, a discussion on light_

The first dream felt like being a kitten in a place that was sure to contain some string. This feeling translated itself into pictures which stayed with Hermione after she woke up, to her not inconsiderable surprise. Hermione rarely recalled her dreams. Dutifully, she picks up the notebook waiting on her bedside table and takes notes. A long corridor, stairs, more corridors. Empty and lit by- Hm. Double candle holders in regular intervals on the walls. Not flying candles, no. An exceedingly soft carpet. She remembers thinking that if she jumped she would start bouncing along the corridor. In a Romanesque monastery in France. All that makes no sense at all, but at least it gives her something for Trelawney's next lesson.

Come next lesson Hermione wishes she had burned her notes.

"I can't believe she said that," she is telling Harry for the umpteenth time in not nearly enough minutes. "Who does she think she is?"

Harry pats her on the shoulder, albeit from a certain distance. Hermione, when angry, will heft her book bag from one shoulder to the other, a little as if preparing to hurl it at somebody. Standing too close is a hazard. Especially as she screeches, too.

Harry empathises. He has been listening to predictions of his imminent death for well over two months now and he's not amused. He feels caught between Ron's fearfulness and Hermione's increasing rationalism, unable to choose either view. He should choose ratio, he knows it would be better for him, but how? Sirius Black_ is_ a real threat. The Dementors are _undoubtedly_ around. His friends a_re_ constantly bickering. Trelawney's predictions of certain doom are beginning to sound reasonably reliable. Something like- like a weather forecast.

He doesn't care to share that thought with Hermione. Instead he chooses the sensible route: "You do not believe what she says about my imminent death, anyway. Why would you care that she said some nonsense about your dreams?"

"Exactly!" Ron exclaims from an even safer distance than Harry. "Tell her, Harry! You know Trelawney's right, Hermione, you just pretend you are cleverer than everybody else!"

Harry groans. Parvati snickers from behind them: "You liked Professor Trelawney's dream analysis, didn't you, Ron?"

"What? Why? What did she say?"

Hermione rolls her eyes: "Leave him alone, Parv. Ron hasn't deciphered yet what Trelawney said. Try again in a year or two."

And all of a sudden, she starts giggling. Ron and Harry stare at her, then at each other. Parvati and Lavender join Hermione. In mere moments the girls are talking in howls and fragments while holding their sides:

"I bet he did!"

"Two candles, Mi!"

"Light in your life!"

"A long, long corridor!"

"Two candles! Two!"

The three girls, no longer able to move for laughter, are creating a commotion on the stairs. Some of their classmates, sensing entertainment, are coming back up the stairs. The problem, to Harry, is the way all the girls seem to know something he and Ron don't. Is it a girl thing? Susan Bones, for example, who is coming at a run had not even been in Divination: "What happened?"

"Trelawney-" Hermione gasps.

"No, Ron!" Parvati interjects

"Ron happened?" Susan looks hard at Ron. Ron takes a step back.

Lavender catches herself: "Ron wants to lighten up Mi's life," she explains.

"What?"

"Yes! Mi, dreamed, you see, about candles. And Ron thinks he's one of them."

"He's sure he's one them!" Parvati screams, falling against Lavender.

"Trelawney said that my life will be brightened by two strong candles." Hermione smiles. "And Ron here thinks he'll be one of them. Insists, in fact."

"Oh," said Susan. "Oh-oh. And Ron?"

"C'mon mate," Ron says, pulling Harry's arm. "They are mental." Harry, understanding nothing at all, follows Ron. A moment later the girls are laughing again. He does not yet know that Hermione just gained three new friends.

_What the cat thought on the matter:**  
><strong>_

Crookshanks opens an eye. His keen sense of scent didn't deceived him: His human managed to relax today. Even better, instead of throwing her book bag at the floor and hurling herself onto the bed she sat cross legged on it. Aaaah, much better. That ear had needed scratching. Today his human took the time to talk with the two resident cat-feeding-persons, too. Crookshanks approves. What they said was of no consequence. What mattered was that they had talked and laughed together. Humans needed that and a cat appreciated it when it's main-feeding-person was well cared for. And she was up to something. Hmmm. Sleep. His human had realised that cat-care-persons need to sleep. In that case Crookshanks would have to stay where he was. His cat-care-person would sleep deeply tonight. She would need Crookshanks to guard her against the not-rat. She would need a lot more than that, his acceptable-for-a-human-person, but there was only so much a lone kneazle could do.


	2. Third year (with butterflies)

Just playing with Ms Rowling's action figures.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 0, wherein events transpire because I need them to do so now.<strong>_

* * *

><p>"And what did Babbling say when you asked her?"<p>

"Professor Babbling," Hermione corrects/answers absent-minded, "said that this word does not occur in Anglo-Saxon runic texts and that I shouldn't mix dialects." Damn those Anglo-Saxons, she thought, why did they have to make their inscriptions pretty instead of legible?

"And what happened when you tried writing the sentence as I told you?"

Hermione sighs: "I really think that Babbling has good reasons to advise against doing that."

"And I think that I've already told you that the word does occur in Anglo-Saxon and that Babbling appears to be forgetting the inscriptions on-"

"Those knifes. I completely forgot them. Are they called sah-ks or sah-s?"

"You have been checking the old Frisian texts, then. Good. The British pronunciation is s, long ae, short a, x."

Is her self-appointed runes tutor radiating satisfaction now that she admits to having taken his advice? He is, and Hermione feels the tiniest need to curb his enthusiasm: "And that's all I got from checking other languages, so far: Too many possible pronunciations. If runes weren't so useful I'd chuck them here and now. I am not meant to be musical."

"Stop whining, please, it is getting tiresome. Musicality has nothing to do with pronunciation and you are doing quite well for a beginner, anyway."

Hermione snorts, but refrains from explaining the connection between acoustic perception and articulation. Percy is just trying to help - albeit in his own, sometimes irritating way - and she_ is_ being childish. But that's because Runes is rapidly becoming her favourite subject, making her want to excel at it. She can't help it, it's all so fascinating! The way they tie into so many things she has already learned, how runes connect separate parts into a whole, opening totally new ways of application of what she has already learned! That's not to say that she doesn't like Arithmancy, she likes it a lot. The uses of Arithmancy are many and varied, but Ancient Runes is more accessible a field. For now, at any rate. Arithmancy will come in handy once she gets started on complex projects, projects that require completely different types of magic. But that's not something that she could attempt without Runes, aka the alphabet of magic itself. Which means that Arithmancy will, for the time being, remain dry and theoretical. Another though strikes her: "Though why Runes should be more directly connected to magic than regular Latin characters I really cannot see, and Babbling keeps forgetting to explain."

"I don't see Babbling tolerating questions about background. Not from her pupils, at any rate."

"Am I supposed to stop being curious until I start an apprenticeship," Hermione asks with irritation.

"You are supposed to think for yourself." Percy says sarcastically . "Also, you are supposed to be asking exact questions that an expert can actually answer. For example, what makes you think that Runes are supposed to be more magical than Latin characters and why do you disagree with that idea?"

And this, Hermione, thinks wryly, is why I am putting up with the Pompous Weasley. Because he knows what he is talking about. Oh, was that her time-spell turning pink? Yes it was. She closes her books.

"Well?" he asks.

"I'll think about it," Hermione says, hastily collecting her quills and bottles of ink in several colours – an absolute must for good notes! – and cramming books and rolls of parchment into her bag.

"Ah. Time is up."

"Yes. See you, Percy."

**OOO**

"Back already? Did you think about what I told you last time? "

"I tried. The assumption that runic alphabets are, as you put it, somehow more magical than other alphabets are more or less stated in the introduction of every beginner's book. Babbling said something to that effect in our first lesson, so it seems to be an established fact."

"Hmph. Let's leave it at that for now."

"Is it better if I call it a universally accepted fact?"

"A little. Carry on."

"The age of the runic alphabets is always mentioned when their importance is mentioned. So I assumed that there was a connection."

"But no-one actually said that they were more suitable for writing magic because they are old, did they?"

"No, but the historical use must be important because we spend a lot of time deciphering pictures of inscriptions instead of just reading and translating the text. Remember that sixth century amulet? It took me three hours, can you believe it? I mean, it is obvious that we are meant to familiarise ourselves with the historical use, not just with the shapes themselves." The implications of what she just said make her pause again, but something still doesn't make sense. Now, what is her problem, exactly?

"I do not think that it is the arrangement of the runes that matter," she says slowly and carefully. "If it did we would be studying magical geometry, or something like that. Incidentally, I know that I amuse you. Spit it out if you know something "

"I could, but that would be crass."

"It would be nice! What is the use of letting me guess?"

"What you call guesswork is the very important step of starting to work out facts that aren't obvious. Or, rather, that aren't written down for every dunderhead to read." Having done his Snape impersonation he chuckles.

"You mean it is obvious?" Hermione asks incredulously.

"Now this is a really good question. _I_ should say that it is, but I am hardly average, am I?"

"I will tell the twins that you have a sense of humour, you know."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?"

Hermione considers for a moment: "It was, yes. Unfortunately they simply won't believe me."

"And what would have been the consequence, oh bookworm, if they did believe you?"

"They'd challenge you to a prank war, and you wouldn't want that in your NEWT year, would you?"

"Merlin, no! I'd loose a minute of my revision time! Maybe even two!"

"I think you may be underestimating your kid brothers, Mr Weasley," Hermione sniffs. She realises that Percy would not be impressed with Fred and George's antics. She had been inclined to view them as rather unintelligent buffoons, herself, until-

"Am I?"

Hermione blushes. Can she really admit this? She does not want to, most definitely not. But her warning is hardly credible as it stands now:

"I tried to copy the chain transformation they used when they pranked House Ravenclaw early last year. The result... well, it bit me. Literally. And I had to go to Madam Pomfrey for the bite, too. And the twins have been pulling these little stunts off since their second year."

"Chain transformations since second year? Tell me, did you consider the possibility that whoever let you in on that piece of gossip was pranking you?"

"Of course I did!" Hermione exclaims insulted. "It was the first thing I thought! It was confirmed by several independent sources, and besides, I could not see how else they could have done it!"

"What an argument. You were in your second year, weren't you? And the twins were in their third?"

It takes a moment for the words to sink in but sink in they did. Hermione blushes violently. How could she have been so blind?

"Runes?"

"Hm-hm. I may be impressed, after all. They were putting their limited knowledge to good use, it seems."

Hermione, only now remembering to whom she is talking, is feeling as if she had been dipped into a cauldron with something hot and nasty. What has she been thinking?

"You won't tell on them will you?"

"One year later? The professors are no interested in last year's pranks."

"I meant your mother, actually."

"Oh. No, I won't tell my mother, either. But I must say that I didn't realise that you were that close." Did he sound a little reproachful? Hermione hastens to assuage him: "We aren't. I am friends with Ron and Harry. But Harry likes the twins and Ron won't thank me for getting his brothers into trouble with your mother. I mean, I like them, too, they are funny. But-"

"I see. Don't worry. I do not see why I should create difficulties for them."

**OOO**

Hermione exits Trelawney's tower room stomping and huffing. Death omens! Honestly! And the woman expects Hermione to care. Hermione cares for many things. Ron's prolonged bratitude for example. Crookshanks is not hunting that smelly rat, why canẗ Ron understand that? The restrictions on Harry (keeping him locked inside Hogwarts for his safety, really!) worry her a lot, even if Harry is pretending to be sanguine about them. Those four additional hours she is studying every day worry her, especially as they were two hours more than she is allowed, the time-turner having been entrusted to her strictly for the purpose of attending overlapping lectures, but she needs that time, for what is the use of McGonagall's going into all that trouble to make sure that Hermione can attend all available subjects if Hermione fails horribly?

So many so very real problems and complications, and that woman who stinks of brandy wants her to worry about silly death omens! Hermione snorts. Her parents have told her about so-called psychics. Talented frauds, true con artists, who intuit and extricate their clients' thoughts and throw them back at them for good money. Maybe she should tell the old bat to go take lessons at the next arts-and-crafts fair.

Hermione shakes her head. Maybe she should relax. Divination is part of Hogwarts syllabus. There has to be something to it. She's just not seeing it.

**OOO**

Why isn't Divination more like Runes, Hermione asks the world in general. She is on her way from Runes to Divination, and unhappy about it; a feeling that she expresses through increased verbosity during those rare moments when no-one but the world in general can hear it.

(The world is by now used to Hermione's little speeches)

Why, Hermione repeats, could it not be like Runes? Runes is not only interesting and useful, it is good for the brain as such. True, deciphering runes in original engravings is a little tiresome, what with aesthetic conventions, or text that had to fit one tiny blade. Babbling insists that they practice that, too. Oh well. It's all in days work.

The writing, however, the actual composition of lines is amazing. It is the one lesson that relaxes and invigorates her, to an extend that Hermione wonders if she really, really had to sleep at all or if she shouldn't try to ...replace sleep? Who needs all that sleep anyway?

She does. She needs much more than she can fit into her increasingly short nights, but unfortunately, sleep is too fundamental a requirement for her to seriously question it. Although it says something about her current state of mind that she thought of stopping to sleep at all, even if it had been just a joke.

**OOO**

"Do you have a reference handy that I could use for Babbling? About the seax, I mean."

"Let me see. There is a pamphlet somewhere in this section..." Percy wanders away.

Percy is unbelievably helpful, Hermione's found out. At the beginning she felt bad about interrupting him, he is studying for his NEWTs, and he_ is_ Percy, also known as The Stuffy Weasley. But he volunteered his help and in the end she accepted. She's certainly glad she did. Considering her wish to know as much as possible about Runes, and learn it as fast as possible too, she has to look for short cuts, and Percy, with his encyclopaedic memory of Professorial Footnotes and Library Coordinates is like the self-updating map of Hogwarts she wishes she had. Besides, it is definitely possible that Percy enjoys explaining things to other students. Ah, there he is again: "Write that down: Journal of Anglo-Saxon Studies, Year 1912, page 89..."

"I am such an idiot. Never thought of checking the old archaeological periodicals, can you imagine that? You'd think I'd realise that most of the texts are carved on objects that had to be excavated first."

Percy chuckles. Hermione flashes him a grin before returning to her tiresomely bustrophedonic inscription. Why these Vikings and half-Vikings couldn't just have written in one direction, just like any civilised people... Hm. Never mind that.

**OOO**

_That night she dreams of tiny, colourful flying fairies. They were the nasty fairies of old tales, the kind that led travellers into their death and stole little children. For fun. They where flying around her head, pulling her hair and scratching her face. They were trying to steal her time-turner. In the end they disappeared into it._

**OOO**

It is time for the first Quidditch game of the school year. Quidditch. Great. Hermione mutteres some choice profanities and heaves herself out of bed. She is not tired, oh no: She wants the world to end now and restart in a couple of centuries. The current school year with all its strange undercurrents has turned her habitual Quidditch aversion into something Hagrid might be tempted to adopt and cuddle. Hermione certainly wished she could have gotten rid of IT in that manner. Some sort of extension of the memory-extraction for pensieves, maybe? Extract your nasty moods in monster form, tie a ribbon around some extremity, chain them to Christmas tree for nice half-giant. Voilà. Instant therapy.

Hermione sighs. Her thoughts have brought her to the bathroom and she inspects her bleary-eyed self in the mirror. What is it with her recent fixation on therapy? The mirror-self regards her guardedly and keeps anything she might know to herself.

"Mione, are you all right?" A worried mirror-Parvati appears next to the bushy haired close-mouthed bitch: "Hermione, we are the real ones, out here. Not them."

Hermione turns: "Huh," she asks eloquently.

"The images won't tell you anything, no matter how hard you stare at them. You will have to put your questions to real people."

Hermione's jaw drops. Is that he most philosophical discussion she has had all year or is she still asleep?

Lavender joins her dormmates: "Hermione, are you getting enough sleep these days? No offence meant, but you look horribly overworked. Can't you take a weekend off, or something?"

"She's right Mione. Take this weekend off, cuddle with your cat and get some sleep. You will still be a month ahead of everyone else. Why don't you just go back to bed right now?"

So tempting, so very tempting, but: "I can't go back to bed," Hermione explains. "Harry's playing Quidditch today."

She turns back in time to see mirror-Lavender hesitate before asking: "Is that about supporting a friend or are there any other reasons?"

Is it possible that Lavender is that insightful?

"Other reasons? What other reasons?" Hermione turns on the tab and splashes cold water into her face. ...because, recent estrangement or not, she remembers Harry accompanying her to the library in the middle of the night because that's what friends do for each other. So Harry is a little distant. So what? They are being besieged by Dementors, and Harry's traumatic memories make him especially vulnerable. And then there is the little matter of her schedule. Maybe Harry isn't being distant at all, maybe he is just waiting for her to re-emerge from behind her pile of books.

Harry, she sees upon arriving in the Greta Hall, is starring at the table instead of eating breakfast.

"Chin up", she tells him. "You are about to spend some time in the air, do all sorts of acrobatics with that broom of yours, give me a heart attack and win us a game. And afterwards we will have a really noisy celebration in the common room. You are looking forward to it, aren't you?"

Harry grins: "If you put it this way, then I suppose I do."

Hermione feels like ruffling his hair, but desists. Just because she is feeling incredibly old these days there is no need to act as if Harry was incredibly young.

Harry sighs, and poured himself another cup of scalding tea: "It's not as if my Quidditch garb wasn't waterproof. I just wish the sky wouldn't look as if the sun had left the solar system forever."

Both of them look up at the charmed ceiling. The gray colour certainly appears to be too much for a puny little star to move.

"It's not as bad as it looks, Harry. You will be fine." Hermione says firmly.

"Yes, mother," Harry smiles.

Hermione can't help herself. She ruffles his hair.

**OOO**

One hour later - one bloody hour! - she is ruffling his hair again. Only this time Harry is lying unconscious in a bed in the Infirmary and Hermione Granger thinks that nothing will be all right, never again.

**OOO**

"Percy?"

"Yes?"

"How is Ginny dealing with it? Last year, I mean? Is she all right?" She knew that she was not supposed to ask that but she had wanted to know, and now that the latter had won over the former she couldn't stop from saying it all at once: "I know that I am not supposed to ask, but I wondered how she was dealing with it. I was petrified for the last bit, of course, but from what Harry and Ron told me later it must have been terrible for her, and I am wondering how she is doing, if she had or still has nightmares, and such things. All she would tell me was that she had trouble with going to sleep during summer and that your mother gave her potions for that, but is that really all? I mean, obviously I do not understand healing at all, and I cannot really ask people about that sort of thing and-"

"Hold on. Remember, one question at a time. Please."

"Right. I am sorry."

"Don't apologise. Just tell me what you want to know. You must realise that I am not privy to my sister's thoughts or what my parents did about her predicament."

"No. Right. But you can tell me about mind healing, how it works, because I am not seeing anything like the mind healing I know and-"

"Hold on. What do you know about muggle mind healing?"

"About therapy, you mean?"

"If that is what it is called then yes."

Well, what does she know about therapy? What everyone knew, or believed to know, of course: Proper therapy involves lots of talk. Regular sessions with a person who is trained to interact without becoming personally involved. A sort of professional parent or friend. Someone who, miraculously, will find the right questions. The right questions being those that will, equally miraculously, untangle your mind for you. She knows that creative expression may be involved and she has heard about the more exotic forms, therapy that involves screaming. Medication may be prescribed. Medication is either very evil or necessary, but easy to abuse.

Hermione realises that she knows very little about therapy. The one thing she considers to be a fact is that it takes time, and that it is what happens when people have had traumatic experiences. Or the other way around, actually. Thankfully Percy listens patiently as she tries to explain to him – and to herself – what she knows and thinks.

"Your central point is that when something ...bad happens to a person they need professional help to learn to handle it. Is that right?"

"Something traumatic. Something that changed a person in a manner into something they did not want to be. Something that has made them adopt habits that are actually detrimental to their well being."

"The former sounds rather vague. How would anyone know that they have become something other than what they wanted to be, and how would that be different from simple whining?"

Hermione sighs: "I am not presenting a good case here. Are you by any chance familiar with the origin of the term 'shell shock'?"

"If you are talking about the Great War then yes. Ah, I see. Interesting. You mean that war is not the only thing that might lead to that. Interesting."

"Er... that's not exactly my opinion, Tom."

"What did you call me?"

"What? What did I say? Sorry Percy, I am really tired."

"Don't worry, I am tired, too. I'd tell you to go to bed but I want to be clear on this point, if you don't mind. You are telling me that Muggles have specialists for this 'therapy' that you tried to describe. In fact, they have many different types of therapists. And the idea of mind healing is widely accepted, if not widely understood. Just like regular muggle medicine. Is that right?"

"Exactly."

"And you think that Ginny might require something similar?"

"I think that the events of the last year might have scared her deeply. I mean, I was just petrified and I wonder if that didn't do something, only everyone tells me that it doesn't and that I should carry on with my life. But Ginny was possessed by Voldemort's diary and nearly died of it, and she is just carrying on with her life, too. Is that really normal for wizards?"

"Vo-Voldemort?"

"Sorry. You-know-who."

"No, it's all right. I was just surprised to hear it." But he sounds shaky, and she can't blame him: "No, I am really sorry. No-one says the name except Dumbledore and muggleborns like me. I know that. Incidentally, do you have any idea how it was done? The diary, I mean? Flittwick and McGonagall told me only so much and my own research has been largely fruitless, and this time I am sure that he pulled that trick off when he was just sixteen, because that is what Dumbledore said. Harry told me. I was going to-" She pauses: "Oh god."

"What?"

"I forgot! I was going to research all those things during summer and I simply forgot it! I lost all my notes, too! Oh, god, what is wrong with me? I thought-"

"What? What did you think?"

"Nothing, nothing, it's really nothing. I am sorry, I am so sorry," she's suddenly chanting, having lost all sense for how insane she sounds, "I am sorry, you don't have time for that nonsense, and I do not have it, either. I am sorry, I must run, bye."

**OOO**

She forgot her research, how could she had forgotten her research, had she really forgotten her research? How does one forget having been petrified, for heaven's sake! And she lost her notes, she never looses notes! She still has notes from the last two years! (One never knows when one will forget something really basic and then she'll be really glad that she still has one's old notes.)

(Forget something really basic.)

(Oh no.)

How could she- _What else has she forgotten?_

**OOO**

She sure is getting comfortable around Percy, she later thinks morosely. Lecturing him for an hour about muggle psychotherapy. And using his younger sister as an example. Great. True, Percy didn't seem to mind it. Maybe he's getting comfortable around her, too. He mentions things that aren't Runes, every now and then, she has noticed that.

Great. That made it, what? Half a new friend in exchange for her two old ones?

**OOO**

"There you are. Do you think you will stay calm this time? I need to ask you a couple of things, and I really want you to stay and answer them."

"I am so-"

"Don't apologise! Just don't. I am not going to bite you, I just want you to relax and talk to me. "

"I'll try. But I cannot answer for my nerves at the moment."

A long-suffering sigh that is actually meant to be funny (it works, too): "I can tell. What's the newest problem?"

"I wish I could decide what do do over Christmas, at least!" she complains. "What is worse, in your opinion: Leaving my deadly depressed best friend alone in the castle or cutting into the 12 weeks a year that I get to spend with my parents?"

"What's the problem with your parents coming to Hogsmeade? Don't they like Scotland?"

Hermione let her head fall on the table. "Of course! Why can't I ever think of the obvious answers? If I take them there they can spend the holidays in Hogsmeade, I can see them every day, we can take walks and see things, and so on, but I will be able to return to the castle every couple of days, and I could split Christmas between my parents and Harry and Ron. Maybe Harry will want to spend time with us, too, my parents wouldn't object."

If Harry won't prefer to spend his time with Ron, who does not stress him as Hermione does, or, rather, stresses him in acceptable ways, like taking Trelawney and her death omen seriously... They are your friends, she admonishes herself.

"Even if they are being as tiresome as they can and striding for more?"

"Oh. Did I just said that aloud?"

"You did not, but I heard it nonetheless. Now, about that other matter. How long were you petrified?"

"Six weeks."

"And what changed after that?"

"Two things changed, but I only noticed one at that time. The first thing was that I started remembering some of my dreams, something no-one in my family does."

"And the other one?"

"That's the problem. I know that something very bad happened, and that it was directly related both to my spell as a statue, and to Harry. But I cannot remember what it was."

"Nothing at all? Not even a bad dream?"

"A dream?"

"Yes. You said you started remembering your dreams. Tell me the most frightening dream that you remember."

"Oh dear. That would be a silly nightmare about that monastery in northern France. Mont Saint-Michel."

"Details, please."

"Ah. According to local legend, the archangel Michael came to a local bishop and demanded that the bishop build a monastery and dedicate to him. The bishop was lazy and ignored him so the angel burned a hole into his head. With his finger."

"With his finger, you say." The idea seems to fascinate him. "Hm. Hardly angelic behaviour."

"You aren't going to start interpreting my dreams, are you? It is bad enough that I have that fraud telling me nonsense about candles and whatnot."

"Then I won't. But promise me that you will try to get some sleep and quiet during your holidays. No books at all for two weeks. Can you do that?"

**OOO**

Christmas comes and goes. Harry is delivered directly to the Burrow, which has been warded against intruders, so Hermione spends the holidays at home with her parents, after all.

Ten days after their return McGonagall gives Harry a package. It contains a new broom by an anonymous sender; the package arrived on Christmas but was confiscated and examined by Dumbledore's security. Apparently, they had not found anything suspicious on it, other than the fact that it was a premium racing broom, insanely expensive, and anonymously delivered to a pupil with prominent enemies.

Something about that incident uplifts Hermione's spirits. She does not tell anyone about it, and tries not to think too much about it herself, but it did.

**OOO**

Hermione drops Divination in February. The way that comes to pass is rather bizarre:

"Mione?"

"Yes, Parvati?"

"Do you think this is a bird? Here, in this corner?"

Hermione considers the tea leaves. Then she looks at her friend: "No. No, I think it is a cat. A rather heavy cat, which is why the outlines confused you."

Parvati beams: "Really?"

Hermione nods. In the end, people are people, and fun with friends is fun with friends. She intends to drop Divination after this year. For now, though, she can tell a friend that the sludge in her tea cup is the omen that her friend is been hoping for. It would cheer her. And, as Hermione has finally realised, it will not harm her, either. Parvati does not believe in tea leaves. She wants to believe that her future contains things that she, Parvati, wishes to have in her life, and that is something Hermione wants her new and unexpected friend to believe as firmly as possible.

Five minutes later Hermione is finding happy omen of even happier future events in Lavender's tea cup. Two minutes after that Trelawney has thrown her out of her class for blatant disrespect of the subject taught there.

The actual words, however, were: "You wretched girl! You will not come between me and my pupils!"

Chaos erupts in no time at all.

**OOO**

"I can't believe he didn't sack her!" It's now after dinner and Susan, who had expected Dumbledore to make an announcement at lunch, is fuming: "He has had enough time to consider everything."

Parvati giggles: "Maybe he is secretly in love with her."

Everyone present expresses her disgust in a clear, yet ladylike manner. Lavender does not fall to the floor laughing and Hermione does not spray Hannah with pumpkin juice.

"Ew! Parv, you are sick!"

"Me! I didn't do anything! They d-"

By shrieking in full volume and all at once they manage to not hear the terrible, _terrible_ words that Parvati was about to say. Parvati looks at her friends – old and new – in surprise:

"What's the matter with you all?"

"I was going to ask you that," Susan replies. "Do you think before you say every disgusting thing that's on your mind?"

"Of course I do! It's just that- That-"

"That what?"

Parvati pauses. She feels, no: knows that she wants to word this very carefully: "Some thoughts are so terrible that you have to finish thinking them. Have to share them, if possible. It's compulsive."

The newly formed Gigglers look at each other, amazement on their faces. Parv has confirmed something they all had been thinking about. But what?

"I wonder," Parvati says, looking at every one of her friends in turn and then settling on -nothing.

(The audience, for there is an audience, waits with baited breath.)

"The operative word," Hermione continues in a wondering voice.

"Yes," Susan says decisively. She looks at Lavender. Lavender bows her head in confirmation.

The other occupants of the Hufflepuff Common Room, for this was the place and such was the audience, consider applauding.

There was light and music, even though there wasn't.

They all collectively transcended ordinary speech and achieved twin talk.

Epiphany may be useless but it is the best entertainment _ever_.

"You know," Susan says later, "that fat cat that you mentioned? In the cup? I think we should make that one come true." She adds lemon to her tea. Extremely bitter tea with lemon is a favourite of Auntie's which Susan adopted during her second year at Hogwarts. She does not know that Auntie developed (at the same time) a preference for Susan's favourite tea bread. Madam Bones did notice it last summer, but she has not commented on it. She felt guilty that she was glad that Susan missed her, too.

There is no way of predicting Amelia Bones's reaction when she would find out that Susan had adopted her own hard stare; refined it even, by using it in combination with a teacup. (Susan's hard eyes over the rim of her teacup, said to be filled with blood and a dash of vinegar, will haunt peoples' dreams for decades to come. Later.)

"How," asks who is eyeing neither Cedric Diggory nor the sweets.

"Not that cat, Parv" says Lavender, who knows.

Blank looks all around.

"Crookshanks," Susan explains. "You told me about your problems with Ron's rat." With Ron, is what she's thinking, and what her friends hear. "I was thinking that Ron has had that rat for long enough now," Susan continues. "Neville will probably thank us if we do something about the smell in their dormitory," she adds lightly.

Right, think the girls. Do it for poor Neville.

Hermione turns to her best friend in the world: "What do you propose?"

Susan does not grin: "Get inside, stun it, take it away in a spelled bag. This way it won't wriggle out of your hands or bite you. And," here she loweres her voice, "if you take Crookshanks outside for the feeding there will be no trace of botched cleaning spells in the dormitory."

"Susan, do you really think that Ron will think of testing for botched spells?"

"Of course he won't." Susan says grimly. "But I still will not let you perform a cleaning spell before I am sure that you will get it right."

Three weeks later the wizarding world had been in uproar for 21 days.

_**A protocol of what happened at Hogwarts:**_

Parvati had gone into the third year boys' dormitory, loudly asking for Dean to return her Herbology notes. Lavender, who hadn't said a word had been following on her heels, but the step that had worried Susan and Hermione had been to be the easiest of all: Scabbers had been peacefully asleep on Ron's bed. The two girls had stunned him quickly and pushed him with fastidious fingers into the bag that Hermione had spelled for them. They had then gone for dinner. Which they had left individually and going into different directions. Nothing at all had gone wrong until they had met outside to feed their darling kneazle. Once there, Crookshanks had not been interested in the stunned rat. This had puzzled the girls greatly. They spend long minutes debating whether Crookshanks refused eating the rat because he had finally discovered how disgusting it was (said Parvati, who was sure that the stink would stay with her for the rest of her life), or because he could not play with it properly while it was still asleep (Susan). They had then debated whether they should wake him up or clean him first, and how. At this point Crookshanks had started meowing loudly and in a distinctly non-feline way. This had disconcerted the girls a lot, though not as much as the huge black dog that had jumped into their midst. Truthfully, It would have frightened everyone. Could this actually be the grim with which Trelawney had been pestering them for months now? Was it really after the bag with the rat?

That was when Harry, Fred, George and Professor Lupin had come running. All of them had been screaming at the girls to get away from the rat. Then Professor Lupin had been screaming at the dog. But the rat is stunned and secured, Hermione had tried to say, only to notice that the bag was moving. The bag was spelled for extra stability; Susan the Law Enforcement Professional had not taken any chances. Thinking that her stunner must have worn off, as stunning spells will, eventually, Hermione had reached for the bag and been knocked out.

She had woken to see Harry standing in front of a tall, skeletal man in rags and screaming at Professor Snape who was being held back by Fred and George.

Give him Veritaserum now, Harry had been screaming. I know you have some. I want to know why he betrayed my parents. I want to hear it from him before he dies.

Harry screamed and screamed. It seemed to go forever. Fred and George were shouting, too. Snape was screeching. The skeletal man was as silent and still as a stone.

But then everyone turned into stone. The Dementors had found them.

"Expecto Patronum!"

This must be the silliest spell in the world, thought a strangely detached Hermione. The glowing white stag was nothing but a special effect from a fantasy film. Dementors were embodied, if not exactly living nightmares, they would not be afraid of a glowing white animal.

They were. They left them alone.

Silence. Then Professor Snape had reached into his robes and taken out a clear crystal vial. George had taken it from him and _tested it._ Then they had given it to Black.

"Why did you betray my parents?"

No answer.

"Why did you kill Peter Pettigrew?"

No answer.

"Harry, that's the wrong sort of question," Fred had said and tried himself: "Are you Sirius Black?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever worked for or with You- for Voldemort?"

"Never."

"He is lying," Professor Snape had screeched. "Give him more Serum!"

They had given more of the serum to the unresisting prisoner, with no effect on the answers.

In the end Professor Snape had managed to overpower the twins and drawn his wand. Only to be hit with multiple hexes and jinxes himself. The shouting and screaming males had all but forgotten the five girls. And everyone including the girls had managed to forget the Dementors.

Harry called his stag back. It was joined by a lynx, a cockerel and a boar: Madame Bones and two of her Aurors had joined the fray. The rat, however, had escaped.

The events at Hogwarts had been the easy part.

_**And things that happened in the world:**_

Madame Bones was thorough, as she always is. She collected the testimonies of Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, the Weasley twins, the five girls and Rubeus Hagrid and presented them immediately to the Lower, or core Wizengamot. Urgent session.

The witnesses:

How Crookshanks had been after Ron's rat from the moment he had first laid eyes on him. Lupin and Black had explained how the self-styled Marauders had become illegal Animagi at sixteen.

Hagrid, Professor for Care of Magical Creatures, had confirmed that Crookshanks was mostly Kneazle, a species known for recognising deception and reacting badly to it.

How the girls, assuming that the rat was to be eaten, had decided to facilitate.

How Harry Potter had not been allowed to leave Hogwarts Castle with his friends. That his friends had taken pity on him and given him their precious map of the castle and the unguarded ways out of it.

Lupin and Black had explained how they had made the map and how it worked. Also, how they had lost it to the caretaker Argus Filch.

The Weasley twins had explained how Harry had come to ask them if they were sure that their map worked. It was showing a dead person. The twins feeling that they had seen that name before, but not recognising it. They had taken the matter to Professor Lupin who had already confessed his earlier friendship with James and Sirius to Harry.

Amelia Bones had gone on to collect the testimonies of Arthur and Molly Weasley. Molly and Arthur Weasley had been able to confirm that their children had had the same rat for twelve years.

Albus Dumbledore giving his expert opinion that the map functioned as its creators had wanted it to do.

The Greater Wizengamot had met the next day. Urgent session behind closed doors, the Daily Prophet having been ordered to report international matters and include an extra about newly developed spells for comfort and fun.

The enemies of Albus Dumbledore had been greatly interested to learn that he was employing both a werewolf and a half-giant. Never mind that Remus Lupin not only had never forgotten to take his Wolfsbane Potion but had, upon finding himself transformed and in the company of humans, simply sat on the grass and whined a little. Never mind that Rubeus Hagrid had been employed without incidents for fifty years, or that he had turned out to be an exemplary teacher.

The realisation that a wizard from a prominent family had been thrown into Azkaban without a chance to buy himself out had shaken all fractions. Minister Fudge had hastened to remind everyone that this had happened before his time and proceeded to feed Bartemius Crouch to the wolves.

Bartemius Crouch had risen from the Department of International Cooperation like a wrathful Phoenix out of a volcano.

His voice revived the days of Voldemort's terror. He demanded to know how an elderly Headmaster had become a military leader, autonomous from the ministry and trusted to the point that his word was enough to pardon a Death Eater. He reminded everyone who had known it – and told everyone who hadn't – that Albus Dumbledore had not shared his spies' insights with the official forces.

Crouch rallied against Dumbledore's secretiveness that had cost the wizarding society some of their best and most popular Aurors: The Longbottoms, Potter, Black. Admittedly, Crouch's reasoning for that being Dumbledore's fault went a little over peoples' heads, but Crouch was the kind of public speaker who could carry his audience with him.

For Bartemius Crouch was a rousing speaker, and an angry speaker. He voiced every repressed doubt, every half-forgotten question. Then he had a heart attack. The nurses who took him to St. Mungos returned to his house for his personal things and found Barty Crouch Junior.

From there on it was plain sailing for Albus Dumbledore.

Sirius Black was declared innocent and offered compensation.

Severus Snape was given the Order of Merlin, Second Class, for selfless protection of his pupils from Dementors and unspecified other creatures and for the level-headed use of Veritaserum to resolve a crisis. Someone suggested to appoint him as official Potions Master to the Ministry. That would have removed him from Hogwarts, but some kind person felt that Snape deserved the honour as much as Hogwarts students deserved another professor. Unfortunately, this proposition did not even make it into the minutes of the Wizengamot session.

Remus Lupin and Rubeus Hagrid were commended for their work as teachers. Lupin resigned the post at Hogwarts in order to look after his sick friend.

Minister Fudge commended Arthur Weasley on his family. He suggested that Percy, about to graduate from Hogwarts as top student of his year, start work in the Minister's office, ignoring Arthur Weasley's protestations that Percy would lack experience with politics.

Harry Potter, one year after being rumoured to be a murderous monster, was declared the Hero of Hogwarts, so pure of heart that he could already produce a corporeal Patronus.

Gryffindor won the House Cup, five hundred points ahead of the next house, Ravenclaw.

_**third year, the aftermath:**_

"You? You were planing Hagrid's lessons for him?"

Harry blushes. Hermione beams: "Harry, I never knew! I am so proud of you! The class was as good as it could possibly be! How did you do it?"

"Oh, I based it on the table of contents of our book. I figured that the author would have had a reason why she wrote about Magical Creatures in that particular order.

"Hagrid must have been really very cooperative," Hermione says doubtfully. She knows Hagrid adores Harry, but to that extend?

"You know that he likes me. We would meet for tea, chat about this and that and discussion would turn to his plans for the next week. All in a friendly manner, of course. Oh, and I had transcripts made by older students in Kettleburn's classes. Parvati asked Padma to get them for me. Did you know that Ravenclaw has a library of their own where they collect students' transcripts?"

"Harry, you are brilliant!" Hermione knows she's gushing, but she can't help it. Harry never showed any inclination to study more than necessary before, and now this! Organising lessons! He has gone directly from crawling to running marathons, as far as Hermione is concerned.

"It was your idea," Harry tells her. Astoundingly he says it without any trace of reproach.

"As if that matters, Harry! You did the work, not me, and you did amazing work. I hope-"

"That it left me with a taste for studying?" Harry teases

"That too, of course. But no. I hope that you can forgive me that I didn't help. It was my idea and Hagrid is my friend, too, but I barely managed my own workload, to tell you the truth. It was an experience but I am glad it is over. I won't try anything like it any time soon."

"Doesn't matter, Hermione."

"Ehm...Harry?"

"Yes?"

"Something happened last year. Something that had to do with the basilisk and with you, and I do not remember what it was. I know that I must have put together an enormous amount of notes at some point, but I lost them somehow, and then I forgot about whatever it was that I had wanted to do with them, as well as whatever it was that had to do with you. Can you tell me what it was?"

"You forgot?"

"Yes."

Harry's forgiving mood dissolves: "You forgot? How could you forget something like that?"

"You mean you know what it was? Harry, please tell me! I have to know!"

"Hermione, I am sorry, but what the hell is wrong with you? You are telling me that you simply lost several days, do you know that?"

"Days! That bad? Oh my god, what am I going to do?"

Her genuine fear placates him. Harry knows Hermione's panic mode better than most; she's not play acting. And he knew along that it's been a very hard year for her. She found a moment to confess the use of the time-turner. Harry laughed himself sick that she never considered making time for sleep, but that's Hermione all over. Then there's what Dumbledore told him about her parents' difficulties. He never asked her about it. Of course, not. He hopes that her family will not break apart, though. The thought that his friends might loose their families is enough to give Harry nightmares. ...Hermione has been plagued by nightmares this school year, hasn't she? He remembers hearing her complain that she never remembered her dreams before. He really hopes that her family will be all right. They have been a little distant this year, what with Ron and Hermione fighting over their pets... and in consequence Harry has regained his true family. As much as that was possible. Without the estrangement Hermione might never have become friends with Susan Bones. If she and Susan had not been friends, Hermione might never had thought of allerting Madam Bones. Harry shudders to think what would have happened if Madam Bones had not taken Sirius's case over. Another Hogwarts cover-up? He smiles warmly at his re-established best friend: "Right, don't panic. What is it that you forgot and why is it so important? "

Don't panic, he says. Hermione proceeds to do just that: "Harry, you have no idea how fucked up my brain is right now. Right, let's change topic. I don't think I can deal with it right now."

Whatever makes her happy, Harry decides: "Er... Ok."

**OOO**

Amelia Bones waited for a quiet moment to talk to Miss Granger. Quiet, or, for that matter, unobserved moments had been hard to come by in recent weeks. Also, the Hogwarts students who had testified at the Wizengamot had been under tight surveillance. They are children as well as important witnesses, after all. Why, the Head of Law Enforcement had been hard pressed to get a private moment with her own niece and ward. And that was before the absolute débâcle with Barty Crouch Junior. The chaos and absolute distrust that prevailed for days after that would have made Barty's departed Master proud, Madam Bones thinks grimly.

"Miss Granger. I understand that Susan and you are Arithmancy partners."

"Yes, Madam Bones. Professor Vector says that we complement each other."

Madam Bones nods in agreement: "Susan tells me that you understand new material seemingly without thought. I understand that you are quite the star student here. How did the time-turner work out for you?"

Hermione looked around before answering, causing Madam Bones to smile a tiny, tiny smile:

"I do not wish to repeat this experience soon, even though I am glad that I had it that night."

"So was I. And I was impressed when you asked me not to mention that you had used it to go back two hours and owl me."

"Strictly speaking I was not supposed to use it for anything other than getting to my lessons. I mean, when I deviated from that rule it turned out well, but what if it hadn't?"

"Yes, yes. Of course. I congratulate you for your knowledge of the rules, Miss Granger. I wouldn't have expected it from what Susan told me about you, to tell you the truth."

Hermione allows herself a grin: "Susan is helps me seeing things that I wouldn't notice, myself. She is a great person and wonderfully terrifying when she wants to be. You must be very proud of her."

Madame Bones's lips curl a little more: "Very good, Miss Granger. Very very good."

**OOO**

"Tom! _I was afraid that I wouldn't find you," Hermione said relieved._

"_Well, here I am, Tom Riddle, at your service."_

"_And you still don't know who I am. Why, you must be dying of curiosity," she said smilingly._

"_You are the girl who is being taught Ancient Runes by current first year student Bathseba Babbling and who confuses me with a young man from an unusually large wizarding family. I notice that you have overcome your little problem. Tell me, to what do I owe this most welcome epiphany?"_

"_I am glad that I've cleared my lenses, too," she answered in her best dry voice, but she knew, and he knew, that she was flirting with him._

"_What I meant is that I have wanted to talk to you for the longest time, which wasn't possible as long as you weren't aware of my identity," he answered silkily. _

"_My, my," Hermione surprised herself by saying, "aren't you quite the perfect English gentleman?"_

_Giving herself full points for not staring at him and saying 'Really?' Also, making a mental note to find a reliable book on proper old-fashioned manners. _

"_Hardly."_

"_It was quite an interesting problem, actually. You see, the time-turner I had been issued was spelled to confound the person who wore it. I see two possible explanations: One that this is part of a combined spell that ensured that I did not misuse my time-turner, or, two, that it was part of somebody's experiment with an unprotected, because muggleborn, student. Unless you see more possibilities than I do," she finished, voice trailing into a polite questioning tone. _

"_I wonder who started the unofficial division between Divination and Arithmancy. Do you realise that Arithmancy and Divination belong together?"_

"_My mother speaks Greek. It was her first question when I told her about those subjects and that they were being taught at the same time. I, of course, assumed that it was another case of muggles getting it wrong." _

_He sighed impatiently: "So you did not take the Inheritance test at Gringotts as I told you to?" _

_Hermione smiled very sweetly: "How many school years have passed in your time since we first met?"_

"_Ah. Two years for me. But less for you. That's interesting. How did you remove the spell form the time-turner? If I knew that I might venture an educated guess as to its exact purpose."_

_Hermione smiled herself: "I didn't. I am currently without a time-turner. The name's Bond, by the way."_

_Tom regarded the bushy haired girl in her medieval robes. It was a long, long way from Bond Street._

"_Is it?"_

"_Of course not."_

"_In that case I am pleased to meet you, Miss Bond."_

_Hermione was not surprised and certainly didn't flinch when he kissed her hand, or her._

Hermione woke up with a start. Damn those nightmares! She was getting rid of her time-turner today! Bathseba Babbling was not a day older than thirty. Percy Weasley, who had just graduated and would not be available for questions from now on, had recommended several books on Runes that she might want to read during her holidays. And she knew that it was Percy, and had always been Percy in the library, because they had discussed Runes at breakfast all year long. Heck, Ron had been as angry about that as he had been about Crookshanks.

...she was so glad that their friendship had survived this year. Poor Ron! Upon being assured that he had shared his bed with a grown man, and a Death Eater to boot for years he had set it on fire. Rodents had joined spiders in his gallery of personal horrors, especially after students from Slytherin and Ravenclaw had taken to transforming random objects into mice and rats and putting them in Ron's way. Thankfully, Crookshanks had consented to stay with Ron for the rest of the school year. His presence had helped Ron a lot.

She did wonder what the suffix -mancy might mean in Greek, or who she might ask. She knew that it would not her mother, however, who was a dentist and not interested in language or foreign languages save French.

**...oooOOOooo...**

**Author's Notes:**

Hermione's Runes lessons are based on what little Indo-European Studies (Linguistics) I remember from university ...many years ago. My otherwise excellent professors had a weird fondness for letting us decipher the handwriting (or chiselling) of dead people. Weird, because we weren't, and did not become Archeologists. That's not to say that I could say too many intelligent things about runes, nowadays. Any detail that I will need to mention in future chapters will be from "Best of Wiki".

This chapter is a collection of fragments. This is not what I am planning for future chapters but it was just the best solution, given my time and the number things that had to be mentioned at this point.

I am sure it has been mentioned elsewhere, however: Arithmancy means Divination through the use of numbers. *My* Arithmancy is rather simple Mathematics with extra Laplacian demons. Not that I think that you didn't notice _that._

JKR's storyline required Remus Lupin to forget his Wolfsbane in a critical moment. I wrote this chapter in such a way that he gets to take it in time and even show what an exemplary little wolf he is. I prefer him to have a different set of faults. Besides, even teenagers don't forget their *potions* as regularly as screenwriters have them do it.


	3. Summer in a grim place, I

The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1, <strong>

**Wherein Harry beginns a new life **

**and  
><strong>

**Learns a fundamental question**

* * *

><p>Harry was not cooking, dusting, cleaning the car, working in the garden or walking around in the neighbourhood, with a sandwich and the instruction to not return before nightfall. Instead of all and any of these things, Harry was simply reading.<p>

It seemed wrong. Now and again he would pinch himself, then tell himself to stop being ridiculous, please. _But it seemed so wrong._ It was summer. The not-at-Hogwarts part of the year. He was not supposed to be-

Oh, shut it, he told himself impatiently.

Remus stopped pacing up and down the corridor and sat down next to him. Harry closed his book.

"Like the book, Harry?"

Remus was trying to smile, Harry saw, and not quite getting there. They were at St Mungo's, waiting to be admitted to Sirius's room, but the healers weren't letting them see him. Harry and Remus were visiting several times a week and days without delays were an exception. Today's delay was currently at one hour and twenty minutes. That, too, was not exceptional.

The book Harry had been reading was an introduction to Ancient Runes that Remus had picked for him. Harry had grown tired of Divination and Remus had suggested Runes as the alternative he'd be most interested in.

"I think that I have to take up Arithmancy as well, to tell you the truth."

This time Remus managed to smile: "Do you think that or is it something your friend told you?"

"Hermione you mean? No, that's not the reason. This book is for people who start Runes and they mention Arithmancy so often that I think I will regret it if I do not take it up as well."

Remus frowned: "Is that so? I must have forgotten that when I gave you the book. I had been looking for something simple, but I suppose I forgot-" He did not bother finish the sentence. Instead he started pacing again.

"Remus? Why shouldn't I take up Arithmancy, too? A number of my classmates did last year. It's a normal subject at Hogwarts."

"Yes, of course it is, Harry. There's nothing wrong with it, as such. It's just that you would have to start two new subjects with classmates who are a year ahead of you. It would be really a lot of work. It would leave very little time for fun."

Harry felt confused... about his feelings. Something was off, here, wasn't it? Remus was discouraging him from becoming a more diligent student?

Remus is worried that you won't have time for your friends and Quidditch, he told himself, but he did not believe it.

"I do not have to start in second year. I could study with the third years," he offered, even though he did not like the thought. Remus promptly called him out on it:

"I don't think you will like that, Harry, and I am not sure that Professor McGonagall will tolerate it."

Remus was trying to dissuade him from trying.

"I do not want to discourage you, Harry," Remus was saying, "but what you propose to do entails extremely hard work."

Really, Harry thought. As hard as having to figure out alone how to write essays in my first year because all teachers were assuming I could do it and asking for several feet of parchment every week?

"I mean. You have your friends and a place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You do not want to give that up, do you?"

Give up my friends, Harry thought exasperated. I want to change a subject and take an additional one, not move into the library. Not that the library was friend-free space, with Hermione all but sleeping there.

"You'll need free time to relax in between, too."

I have free time, Harry thought. Too much of it. I could easily sacrifice two thirds of it and I'd still get to go to Hogsmeade every other weekend.

"James would not have wanted you to give up Quidditch. You are an incredibly talented seeker, Harry."

Who the hell is this person, Harry asked himself, temper rising. If this is truly Remus Lupin then I do not want to know him.

"Harry? Remus? I know you are out there, even though this woman says you aren't."

The door to Sirius's room had opened. The healer – a man, not a woman, Harry noticed – was standing in the entrance. It did not matter. He simply did a Bludger and ran directly towards him. It worked, as Harry had known it would.

"Harry my lad! You've grown since I last saw you!"

"Mr. Black, you are confused. Mr Potter, your godfather does not recognise you! It is really better-" the healer was barking. Mad, Harry thought, and brushed him aside. There was no woman in the room, either.

"I grew a lot, recently," Harry said, wondering if Sirius had meant to insult the healer: "I ordered a complete new wardrobe only this week because I'd overstretched the lengthening charms on my old stuff."

His last words however were drowned out by Sirius's shrieking:

"Go away you old meddling coot! Get out of here! Go and have your ears checked! Me not recognising my godson! Who the-"

The healer fled. Harry grinned at Sirius, who made a gesture in the direction of the door. It closed of its own accord. Then locked itself. Sirius now turned to scowl at Harry: "I hope you are properly terrified, lad." He added a growl, for good measure.

Harry laughed until his sides hurt, and then he laughed some more. Soon he was painfully gasping for air.

"I take it that you are enjoying yourself, dog."

"Me? I'm working my arse off, entertaining those morons here. Healers my ass. Bloody-"

"Language, Sirius. Language."

Sirius snorted: "So, what about you, pup? Are you enjoying your holidays?"

Should he tell him about his disagreement with Remus, should he not. Harry had been warned that Sirius would need time to re-adjust to reality. That was why he was still in St. Mungo's, after all.

"What? Nothing harmless and uncomplicated that you can share with your deranged godfather? All secret affairs of state?"

He did not sound insane, even if that was what people were saying about him, covertly and openly. As far as Harry was concerned Sirius sounded perfectly ...understandably angry.

"I haven't had that much free time, to tell you the truth. I decided to change my electives and take up Runes and I am trying to cram as much of it into my head as possible. I mean, I'll be a year late, obviously."

"Runes," Sirius said, but more to himself. "Is Remus helping you? He was one of the best in our year in that subject."

"Ah. Well, that explains the lack of- I mean, why he is less than impressed with me, I suppose. Yeah, Remus is ...helping."

"I heard that," Sirius said drily.

"What?"

"What you were thinking. Hm. It's strange. I mean, it's been twelve years, obviously, but it's still- I mean, it doesn't really sound like the Remus I remember."

"I wanted to ask you about that," Harry began tentatively.

"Go ahead then."

"Only, the healers have told me that I shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what? Talk to me about Remus, or talk to me about Azkaban?"

"Ask you about Azkaban. It might interfere with your treatment, Remus says."

"Remus is in this too, isn't he?"

Damn, Harry thought. Now I set him off. The healers had warned him and Remus that Sirius would need time to get over his time in prison and that making him relive it would not help. Professor Dumbledore, in their meeting at the end of the school year, had admonished him that his godfather was in a fragile state of mind and that if he, Harry, cared for him and wanted to help him he would have to put put Sirius interests above his own needs. Dumbledore had been kind but firm: Harry had to understand that it would not be easy for either of them, but Sirius had been wronged terribly and they all owed him to help him recover.

"What's it with the angst, pup? Don't you know that it gives you wrinkles?"

"What?" Harry asked confused. Wrinkles? Maybe Sirius truly needed more help that Harry had realised.

"The angst, pup. The expression of deep concern. It doesn't suit you. Your mother would brain me if she could see it. She was always going on about my supposedly bad taste."

He definitely needed help. Urgently so. If it had been Fred or George making that kind of comment Harry would have assumed that they were pulling his leg, or simply being themselves, but in Sirius's case this behaviour was ...bizarre. It would be good to distract him, Harry decided.

"Er, Sirius? Why don't I go and call Remus, too. He must be wondering why we've locked him out."

"He's not wondering, he knows that I am busy gnawing the flesh from your bones. No, wait, he's the one who eats kids. Damn. I wonder what's going through his mind right now," he exclaimed blithely.

Harry had resolved to be understanding and supportive. The talk with Professor Dumbledore had frightened him, initially. Then it had strengthened his resolve, as Harry had felt forewarned. Now, under the onslaught of Sirius crazy and cruel ramblings he was holding on to Dumbledore's warnings: I have been warned, Harry told himself. I have been warned. I should have expected this. He was my father's closest friend. We owe him. He took a deep breath: "Yeah, but you aren't gnawing my bones, are you? Guess I forgot to bring along some mustard. Next time, I promise."

Sirius stared hard at him: "You do that, kid. Bring a good one, so we can try to coax Remus into taking a bite, too. Did you know that he tried to eat a kid while we were at school? Snivelus, that was. Dumbledore had to hex the greasy git into next week to keep him from talking."

And Harry exploded.

"Done screaming? Great. Go open the door and tell Remus to get you something for your throat. Then come back here, we need to talk. In earnest, this time."

Harry shouted some more, but actual assault was prevented by Remus's finally managing to break the spell on the door and stumbling inside.

"Hello Remus. Did you break it the muggle way? I know you are more solid than most but this must have hurt. Remember to get it checked before you leave."

Remus ignored him completely: "Sirius, what the hell have you been telling Harry? I could hear him through the silencing spells!"

Sirius grinned: "Good wolf."

"Stop calling Remus that!" Harry would have shouted, but his throat capitulated after the first syllable. He started coughing.

"What the hell, Sirius," Remus repeated. "Do you have to give Harry hell, of all fucking people in the fucking world? Did Azkaban turn you back into the brat you were in sixth year?"

"Remus, if you want to do something useful go and get a potion or something for Harry's throat. Then return without a healer. I need to talk to both of you."

"Really, Sirius? You need to talk to us? Well guess what, we have been waiting for two hours to talk to you. That's the time you spend frightening the healers out of their wits so that they wouldn't let us

come inside. If this is how much you want to see us I guess we had better go."

"Oh, do shut up," Sirius said scornfully. "The healers did not let you see me because they are under orders to give me cheering potions before anyone talks to me. Forgive me for wanting to be properly awake when I see my friends and family."

"Damn it, Sirius! The healers are trying to help you! Why can't you take the bloody potions already?"

"Harry, you need to drink something. There's water in the can on that sideboard, try that."

"You are insane," Harry coughed.

"That's hardly news, is it? Get something to drink. Remus, if I promise that I'll be good, will you go and get him that potion?"

"If you think that I will leave Harry alone here with you you are even more stupid than Severus ays you are," Remus hissed.

"Then spell the bloody water for him," Sirius growled. "And stay here, I need to talk to you, too. Ah, there you are," he continued in a more normal tone of voice, addressing the Healer who had just entered. "Give Harry something for his dry cough, will you?"

"Sirius," Remus began. Then he turned to Harry, who was still gasping.

"Come with me, young man," the healer ordered.

"No," Harry said between gasps. "We have to leave soon," gasp "Remus and I." cough "Can't return tomorrow." gasp "I want to see Sirius."

"You can give him something on our way out," Remus interrupted the admonishing he could see coming. If Harry was going to be stubborn it was best to finish with it quickly, he had decided. Especially as he had not missed the part about not returning tomorrow. Harry had insisted on daily visits, until now.

Interestingly, it was Remus's attempt at compromise that swayed the healer. Grumbling that he would not treat people on the fly, what _were_ they thinking, he went to fetch a cough syrup for Harry, resolutely closing the door upon them all.

Harry and Remus stared at Sirius. Neither felt like talking. They had been forewarned, and they had not been prepared, never mind forarmed for this.

Sirius held up his hands, much as if he were bringing a peace offering: "I must apologise to both of you. I am sorry."

No-one spoke. The healer returned with a syrup for Harry and orders to see him before he left. Harry just nodded numbly. The healer left again.

"There was a reason for that," Sirius started again.

"Of course there was. Never mind, Sirius, it's- it will be all right. Just try to take those- I mean, if you really don't want to take the potions I could try-" Remus stopped. There was no way for him to interfere with Sirius's treatment, and they both knew it.

"Not that reason, Remus. I knew what I was doing. More or less." He took a deep breath: "You are both determined to help me get over myself. I can see it, and I need both of you to get out of that trip. I won't forget the last twelve years any time soon and I will not change back. Forget that silly idea and we can all move on.

"Sirius, what makes you think that-"

"I am being stuffed with potions for cheerfulness and dreamless sleep. When I am awake they tell me that I need that to counteract the effect of the Dementors by concentrating on my happy memories. Remus, most of my cheerful memories are more than twelve years old! I cannot live in the past just because these idiots do not know how to treat me!"

"What?" a completely befuddled Harry asked: "Live in the past? What do you mean Sirius?"

"What else would you call it, then? Potions to block my bad dreams and potions to block my recent memories. During your first visits I thought you were James, Harry. How am I supposed to take responsibility for you if I do not remember who you are and what year we are living in?"

"Sirius, that's short term treatment. Surely-" This time Remus broke of by himself. I do not suppose they have that much experience with long-term exposure to Dementors, he thought. People who encounter them by accident flee or get kissed and the Prisoners of Azkaban tend to die fast. Don't they?

But could he say that aloud? Surely experimental treatment was better than no treatment at all. The healers of St. Mungo's were experienced people, they weren't guessing and prescribing potions at random. Were they?

"The only people in recent memory who survived Azkaban for as long as I did are the Lestranges, and I swear that's because the Dementors were too disgusted to eat their happy thoughts," Sirius said. Remus smiled faintly. But Sirius had survived with some of his sanity intact because he had had the possibility to turn into a dog. How much time had he spend as a dog? Years? Maybe it was indeed better to remove that memory, even at the price of having him live in the past. Hell, maybe the healers were trying to get him back to his twenty-one year old self. As far as Remus was concerned that had been a good time. The very best, even with that bloody war. Yes, if that was what the healers were attempting then Remus was all for it.

"I did not see you take that syrup, Harry," he said, feeling that a little distraction might be in order.

For some unfathomable reason Harry blushed. He knew he did, he could feel his cheeks getting hot. He got up and went to the sideboard. The healer had told him to drink plenty of water after the viscous purple ...stuff. Harry drank both. It tasted of nothing, surprisingly, but it stuck his teeth together like cement. The sensation was more unpleasant than the taste of rotten fruit he had grown to expect from potions. How was he supposed to drink through this? The answer was that the cement dissolved on contact with water. His throat felt instantly better:

"Why is it that potions and stuff have to be disgusting, one way or the other? Is there no genius potions Master who can do anything about it?"

"The only acknowledged genius at the moment is not interested, I am afraid," Remus said in a faux thoughtful tone, finishing with a mischievous grin.

A joke, Harry thought, but on whom. A thought crossed his mind, a frightening one: "Tell me that it is not Snape you are talking about."

Remus's smile deepened: "No, Harry, of course not."

"Merlin," Harry exclaimed. "If you had said yes I would have snapped my wand and left Europe. In that order."

"So you think that Professor Snape has it in him," Sirius interjected. Had he actually referred to Snape as 'Professor'? Used his correct name, even? "You should tell him, sometime. The result could be interesting."

The joke was on him, Harry decided. Why the hell were they doing that to him?

"Do you want to get me killed or is that the famous Marauder humour," he asked through gnashed teeth.

"It's the same, I am afraid," Sirius, suddenly sad, said.

"Not always," said Remus, patting his old friend on the shoulder.

"You are still too bloody good for this world," Sirius growled in response. He and Remus looked at Harry, whose bemusement was evident.

"We'll tell you," Remus said soothingly. "But not today."

"As long as you tell me sometime it's all right with me," Harry said. And again he felt embarrassed, and he still he did not know why, but he really wished he wouldn't.

"Too many secrets, pup," Sirius asked him. The distinct understanding in his voice helped Harry to answer calmly, mere moments after he had considered braining the man:

"Yeah. I am sick of them." So he sounded like a brat. So what?

"I promise that we'll tell you what we know. About everything."

At that Remus raised his eyebrows. Better not to contradict him now, he decided, and didn't.

"So,"Sirius wa obviously changing topic. Again! "Tell me you two, is that disgusting old house of mine inhabitable or should we send a team to destroy the inside and rebuild it?"

That hit a nerve. Remus and Harry had moved into Number 12, Grimmauld Place at the end of Harry's third year; Dumbledore had insisted on that. The Blacks' long-time London residence was as safe as a house could be, and at least as unpleasant as it was safe. Living there was a daily trial. Harry was trying to be grateful, he really was. He had escaped the Dursleys, he was living with Remus and Sirius would join them soon. He was living with people who liked him, who would never dream of locking him in cupboard or using him as an house-elf.

Though if Harry had been as tardy with his chores as Kreacher was with his, or as openly disrespectful of the Dursleys as the old elf was of his masters... (He had conveniently forgotten how cheeky he had been, even though it had earned him punishment more often than not. He was, in fact, quickly repressing any memory of his mutinous feelings and actions.)

"I wonder about Kreacher, to tell you the truth. I haven't met many house-elves yet, but Kreacher is decidedly too- independent." And what Dobby be, then? Dobby, who had actually warned Harry of his masters' plans against him, had tried to protect him when Harry's death and disgrace had been the expressed wish of Dobby's masters? Harry had met two house-elves. So far, and both had been damned independent for creatures that were supposed to be mere tools of their bound masters.

"Hm. Scratch that."

"Scratch that? Scratch what, Harry? Do you have an itch somewhere?"

"It's a muggle expression. It means 'forget what I just said, it was wrong anyway.'"

"Ah. Yes, I see why you would prefer it. But to what does it refer?"

"It's a metaphor!" Harry said with renewed exasperation. Why were they being so picky today? It was a stupid expression he had picked up from his cousin. Whom he would never see again. So he might just as well forget the expression. Right? Right. Why was it important, anyway?

"Forgive an old man for asking. Even if I am as good as new, or so the healers tell me."

As good as new? What could he mean now? "They do?"

"The healers have regrown my teeth, most of my bones, and even parts of my skin. According to them I should feel like a sixteen year old."

"Regrown most of your bones," Harry asked. He remembered his own experience. He rememebered it all too well, the very idea of regrowing bones again made his stomach turn. And the healers had regrown most of Sirius's bones? Oh. God.

"Why would they do that?"

"Twelve years worth of malnourishment and self-inflicted injuries that were never treated, obviously. It was simpler to just vanish and regrow most of it."

"But that hurts!"

"So it does. Have you had the pleasure?"

Harry shuddered. Remembering it made his arm tingle, even now: "I regrew my left arm bone back in second year. I had to stay in the infirmary all night and it hurt insanely. Did they give you painkillers, at least?"

"Painkillers? Another colourful muggle expression, no doubt. Never mind. That is to say, scratch that." Sirius grinned while Remus sighed and rolled his eyes. "No, they do not give pain relieving potions when they regrow bones. Some ingredient reacts badly with something else, apparently. Well, you know, healer talk. I say, Harry, are you all right? You look a bit green around the gills."

Suddenly Remus had had enough. Friends were friends and antics were antics, but Harry, now white as a sheet, did not deserve any of this: "Sirius, shut up. Harry, let's go. Your godfather clearly needs time to regrow his brain." He reached out for Harry, who was frozen rigid. Shock, Remus knew. The kid had to leave. Had to eat some chocolate, as soon as possible. He put an arm around around Harry's shoulders, and Harry moved a step closer to him

"I swear you are enjoying this," Harry told Sirius in parting.

"I told you the marauder humour was bad. See you next week. If you give Kreacher precise orders he will probably follow them." Was that remorse? Maybe a little. And something else, too. But what?

"I might try that," Harry said non-committally. "I'll tell you next week if it worked. Try to take your potions while we are away, ok?"

"Will do. Next time you come I will be as good as new. See you, Remus. Take care of James."

It was like having escaped from a bad, absurd dream, the kind that makes you turn on the light and touch ordinary objects in order to reassure yourself that you are home and safe. Harry left St. Mungo's almost at a run, never stopping to see the healer about his throat. Remus did not try to slow him down and did not disagree when Harry decided to walk back home.

**~. _ .**

The evening found Harry in the winter garden of Number 12. This room was one of the most habitable in the old and neglected house. That may have been the case because wizards prefer ornamental plants that look after themselves. The plants' preference for household pests had probably contributed to that, too.

Harry had also found that Kreacher, upon being ordered in exact, loophole-free words, had produced the first proper dinner in days. He had thrown a fit, true, but he had obeyed. Kreacher's fit had been the high point of Harry's day. Now Harry was brooding over his Runes book, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The expression "method in his madness" had wandered into his thoughts. Unfortunately, once there, it had done little else.

"Harry? Are you feeling better now?"

Remus had joined him, a cup in his hand, deep worry etched on his face.

"I am fine Remus. I think I simply won't take Sirius too seriously. For the moment, at any rate."

Remus smiled sadly: "I think that's a good idea, for now. He'll recover soon, don't worry about him. He realises that we won't be visiting him when he doesn't listen to his healers. Just don't fret about Sirius, it won't help either of you. You are not responsible for him. He is supposed to be responsible for you."

"I'll keep that in mind. Say, what are you drinking?"

"Herbal tea. I had to prepare it myself but I expect that Kreacher would make you some if you asked him."

"That elf! Did you try the exact order thing that Sirius told us about?"

"I did, but it seems that he does not feel obliged to obey me. At least not without being told so by his proper master."

Harry, as Sirius godson and heir was family. Remus wasn't.

"I'll try to make him, Remus. It can't be that guests of the family are treated like that,"Harry told him seriously and not a little incensed. Remus smiled simply, told him not to worry about him, either, and left soon after.

"Kreacher!"

Pop!

"Master asked for Kreacher, disgusting vermin, traitor of my masters, shaming my poor mistress's house-" And so on.

"Kreacher, what is wrong with Remus?"

"Master asks Kreacher why he won't obey the dirty traitor of my family, oh, if only Kreacher's poor mistress could be hear, she would teach the dirty traitors proper respect, she would."

Oh, not gain the blood-traitor thing, Harry was so sick of it.

"Kreacher, Sirius did not betray his parents. They may have blasted him from the tapestry in a moment of anger but they never disinherited him." Hermione would have congratulated him for his attempt to use logic, he was sure. Not that it would help. Why was he talking to that thing, anyway? It was just a house elf that had gone mad in the decade he had spend alone.

_Method in his madness. _

Could it really be?

"Kreacher, make sure that we are alone in this room and that no-one, including guests invited to this house by members of the family, can listen to us."


	4. Summer in a grim place, II

Give unto Rowling, etc.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2,<strong>

**Wherein Harry explores new terrain **

**and **

**Meets new people**

./

_The misgivings of Remus Lupin_

"Harry? Harry, where are you?"

Not on this floor, it would seem. That was a pity, as it was the top floor of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, unless the damned house was hiding things from him, of course. Remus Lupin wouldn't have been surprised to learn that it did. Could it hide things from him, he wondered now as he searched the rooms on the top floor for Harry. It wasn't Hogwarts, after all. Some sort of partial Fidelius charm? No. That would require a Secret Keeper, and the only living member of the Black family was- Hold on: Sirius wasn't the only living Black. Did Bellatrix and Narcissa count as family? Probably. Could cousins inherit the position of Secret Keeper from a family member? The death of the original Keeper would have done that, if they had been into the secret. But would a seriously paranoid wizard hide a part of his house but entrust the secret to his relatives? Hardly. The only reason to hide a part of your family home was to hide it from snooping relatives, wasn't it? Anyway, Harry could not have known the location of extra rooms hidden in that way. Right. So, where was Harry?

The attic, maybe? Remus pushed open a door. The door revealed a pristine carpet of dust. One sniff confirmed this: Nothing living here, not even rodents. And that meant that Harry had left the house, alone, without telling Remus where he was going. He was not supposed to do that! Had he changed his mind about not visiting Sirius? Remus hoped that he hadn't. Or maybe he hoped that he had. Harry at St. Mungo's would be bad, Sirius's treatment was difficult enough, without interruptions. Harry not at St. Mungo's meant Harry somewhere unknown, and that was potentially awful. Dumbledore had confided in Remus that he had his misgivings about Harry leaving Surrey. Harry living in London, he must have meant. Too much temptation to leave. Damn those Blacks! Why couldn't they have put their insane wards on some nice, isolated place in the countryside? Orkney was the place for reclusive, antisocial wizards, not fucking London. Not that the Blacks had been reclusive. They had just had a penchant for avoiding and ignoring their neighbours. Also, a penchant for having neighbours who would notice that they were being ignored.

Remus sighed. He only wanted to keep Harry safe, but the world in general and Harry in particular seemed to object to that. Of course, Remus was used to the world objecting to him. He almost wished that Dumbledore hadn't asked him to step in for Sirius. Not because he didn't want to take care of Harry, he did. He owed it to James and Lily, too. A debt to murdered friends, however, did not exempt one from possible failure.

../

_The dangerous escapades of Harry Potter_

Meanwhile, Harry was browsing books. He had left Grimmauld Place by bus, the neighbourhood being less than inviting, and Harry simply had had to go out and walk off his confusion. His discussion of the previous night with Kreacher had been difficult, impossible, perplexing and surreal. In that order.

Difficult, because the old elf had, at first, obeyed Harry's orders, as he had to.

Impossible because upon being questioned about his problems with Remus Lupin, the old elf, instead of responding with his usual mild insults, had embarked on a tirade of epic malignancy; something like a stampede of tiny, but furious hippogriffs.

Harry had finally intuited that Kreacher had a personal problem with Lupin which was based on rather more than the latter's lycanthropy. Unfortunately, the house-elf's furious temper had prevented him from answering any other question.

Indeed, Harry soon had wondered if that had been the only reason for the tantrum. If that was the case, then Kreacher had been leading him on, but to what avail? Harry had tried to recollect his experience with Dobby, the only other house-elf he had ever met. He had wished – briefly – that he had reacted to Dobby the way Hermione would have, i.e. frantically tried to find out everything about house-elves. He knew from his experience that house-elves could avoid their masters, could even leave them, for short periods of time. When they weren't in the same room as their masters, that is, when their masters could not made them look at them, the elves could even avoid obeying.

Had Kreacher tried to provoke Harry in sending him away, so that he could then hide from him? That would have been a minor catastrophe at the very least, as the house was barely manageable with the elf.

Harry had retreated hastily and attempted to ask Kreacher about the members of the Black family that the house-elf approved of. No specific questions, just a request to tell him, Harry, about them, seeing as he was living in their house, etc. That question had been meant to divert the elf while not sending the elf away; he did not want to give Kreacher the opportunity to start hiding but he had had to think.

Kreacher however had been curiously non-averse to answering questions about his beloved masters. He had not been forthcoming, but the question had calmed him down. A little. Harry had listened patiently to the – now adoring – tirade about Kreacher's wonderful master and mistress, who would, if only they had lived, surely have ordered Kreacher's head to be mounted on a plate. Someday. Harry was sympathetic; an observer, had there been one, might have deduced that Harry's experiences with obsessed friends, death anniversaries, crazy teachers and Hagrid's adorable pets had left him with an unusual capacity for empathy and understanding. Or, alternatively, with a really good poker face.

Enquiring about Cygnus Black's daughters had left him with the impression that the sainted Walpurga had not entirely approved of Bellatrix, or stopped approving after certain facts had become known. The curious thing was that Kreacher, while abusing poor Andromeda Tonks at great length _ – ungrateful girl, dared to disobey Kreacher's poor mistress, always nice to Kreacher, brought shame on poor mistress's brother, such a sweet child, dared run away with dirty mud-blood, dirty mud-blood not good enough for ungrateful Black girl, disobeyed her poor father, should have married Kreacher's poor master Regulus, kind master Regulus, as kind as awful girl – _had still conveyed his own fondness for her. Did that mean that Kreacher's abuse and insults was mostly his masters' words that he was repeating? Come to think of it, could it really be that Kreacher wanted to be killed and displayed like an animal?

Curious as he was, this was obviously a very delicate question, nothing that Harry could have pursued just then. He had therefore decided to enquire about Regulus Black, the last person whose name he remembered.

And struck gold.

It had been hours before Harry had ordered Kreacher to go get some sleep. He'd had to think. He had to sleep, poor Harry was unbelievably tired, not to mention poor Master Harry's poor brain, which had been blown to pieces. But afterwards he had to think. He had to corroborate this story, he had to find out what that locket was. He had to figure out whom he could trust. Kreacher had not told him what was wrong with Remus, but he had convinced Harry, had helped him see, finally, that things very often were not what they seemed.

And now Harry was buying books. He had slept well but woken up early. Kreacher had woken him, and presented him with a coffee, explaining that Master Harry could now leave the house unhindered, the nasty wolf was still asleep. Kreacher's diction had improved overnight, Harry had noticed. So had his appearance. That was interesting. Master Harry should not waste time looking at Kreacher, Master Harry wanted to go out, Kreacher knew. Harry had been a little apprehensive. Dumbledore had explained at great length why Harry should not go out on his own.

Come to think of it, he hadn't. He had- He had just said it in many different ways? Could that be true?

Harry had tried to remember every discussion he had had with the Headmaster at the end of the previous school year. His memory obliged him with all sorts of details. Dumbledore's robes, Fawkes's occasional "comments", the exact taste of the lemon drops – they were surprisingly sweet, once you gotten used to them – the portraits' attention. No reasons, though. No explanations.

Just Dumbledore instilling his worries into him.

_Things are not what they seem._

He had to get out of there! He dressed in a hurry, downed Kreacher's coffee (nice, not too strong, requiring only one lump of sugar) and left. The bus had taken him to a decidedly nice part of London. Then Harry had walked. Walking, he had recently found out, would uplift his mood, no matter how bad it had been to begin with. During the first weeks in London he had taken many long walks in parks, listening to Remus's stories about the Marauders' school years. He had enjoyed the stories, of course he had. Even thought they had made him sad and somehow, despite the company, lonely. The parks seemed to be empty, all of them and all of the time, but for Remus and him.

Today he he was alone and he craved company, so he stayed on the crowed streets, always choosing the direction that seemed to lead him to more people. He was still on his own, but he did not feel so lonely, in the crowds. Strange, that. It was a beautiful summer day; many of the people he saw were obvious tourists. Harry found an inviting sandwich bar and bought breakfast to eat while walking; he did not want to stay in one place. What could he do, apart from walking? He had to do something, or he would get bored and return, and it was such a beautiful day. There were shops everywhere, weren't they? He could spend some time window shopping and browsing.

And so he had ended in a book shop in a decidedly Muggle street and holding a book with runes on the cover. An amulet, showing some sort of animal and a ring of runes around it, to be precise.

Apparently Muggles not only knew about Runes, they were interested in them, too.

Harry considered the possibility that Number 4, Privet Drive, did not contain everything there was to know about the non-wizarding world. It was frightening... it was something he had known, or at least suspected, a long time ago. Before Hogwarts.

"An interest in Indo-European studies, I see. Very commendable, young man. Very commendable."

Startled, Harry looked up at the elderly man who was talking to him. This man, looking at him as he did over the rims of his reading glasses, had a strict, but not unpleasant aura. Also, a an accent that Harry couldn't _quite_ place and a general air of bookishness. The proprietor of the shop, apparently.

"Ah, yes. I was actually looking for an introduction." He wasn't, he had just picked up the book in surprise, but something about the situation made him modify that. "A friend of mine started learning Runes a year ago and, and she would tell me all about it, and it sounded interesting, so-" That at least was a fact.

"Really? What does your friend study?"

Damn, Harry thought. Indo-european studies? Now he thinks my friend is a university student, or something. Can I pretend that Hermione is a budding historian? He decided to stick with the exact answer: "Anglo-saxon runes, I think."

"A linguist, or a historian, then," the man said pleased. "A serious student. And she aroused your interest as well. Serious interests of young people must be encouraged, I always say. I have a couple of titles on Old English and related subjects. Most of them are rather advanced, of course, but some of them would do as an introduction, if you are not afraid of long words. I do not suppose that you remember any of the titles your friend uses?"

"Er, no, unfortunately not, sir. To tell you the truth I wasn't that interested until a couple of weeks ago. "

"Summer holidays less then riveting?"

That was a way of putting it, Harry thought: "Yes."

"Well, why don't I show you the books I have?" He stalked to a nearby book shelve, looking like a stork in tweeds and reading glasses Hm, Timofeeva is very advanced, obviously, and Wagner is both advanced and rather restricted in his views-"

Harry sneaked a look at the titles and decided that they were in Anglo-saxon themselves. Ælfric's Colloquy? Non-finite constructions? An account of old English stress? What had he done, he wondered. The proprietor was still wandering around and mumbling names, or possibly titles. Harry picked one at random and looked at the back cover:

"_During the fifth and sixth centuries, England was conquered and peopled by pagans (Saxons, Angles, Jutes, etc.) from the shores of the North Sea; the center of emigration was near the mouth of the Elbe."_ Then came the Normans, he added silently to himself, and after them the Goblins. And somewhere in between there were Vikings, too.

Harry's historical knowledge was sketchy, if not random. The result of stopping regular education at eleven and being taught by a goblin-obsessed ghost ever since.

"This reader, I think, and this introduction into early English history. Solid introductions, both of them."

Harry looked at the covers. He was not entirely sure what he was doing here, apart from enjoying a couple of hours alone and unsupervised. The title proclaimed the book to be a history of old English. He looked at the table of contents, then at the introduction. Did he want it, he wondered?

He had wandered in here because... well, because. But he had money, he reminded himself. He could afford a book, even two. If nothing else, they would make good presents for Hermione, wouldn't they? He would need good presents for her. He was still feeling a little bad about the distance between the two- the three of them during the last year.

"I'll take both," he said.

The man appeared to have made up his mind about something: "I wonder. Does your interest in Runes have anything to do with the sowilo on your forehead?"

"Sowilo?"

"The s rune of the Elder Futhark, rather than the sigel, the s rune of the younger one, or of the of futhork."

Harry had always thought of his scar as lightening, and the s rune in his book had not reminded him of that, so he had never considered it. But now he was looking at an illustration that the proprietor of the book shop was showing him, and the likeness of this rune to his scar was rather obvious.

"It was an accident. I've always thought of it as lightening, to tell you the truth."

"That's probably for the best. Although I do wonder if-" He stopped himself, and Harry realised who he reminded him of. The man reminded him of Mr. Ollivander, and Harry braced himself for hearing something he'd rather not know.

"I wonder if you could use this book here. It is not a scientific work, far from it. I ordered it sometime ago after reading a sociological paper on the likes of this ...author," he said, managing to convey intrigue, disapproval and amusement at once. "I hesitate to show it to you," he continued now, taking a book from his desk, "but something tells me that you, and possibly your friend, would appreciate the unintentional humour of this work. Unless it is intended and they know that they are writing books for fools, one never knows with these people." And he presented Harry with a shiny black paperback. The title meant nothing to him, but the subtitle gave him a start:

"Runic magic?"

"Yes, indeed. It is not a book on such practices in ancient times, you understand, although it does contain references to ancient historians that are not erroneous."

A book on magic. A muggle book on magic. Harry had thought that muggles meant circus tricks when they used that word. Or things that do not exist, of course, things in fairy tales and films. He had another flashback to Privet Drive, where fairy tales, fantasy films and circus tricks had been as unwelcome as Harry. Only one example of being muggle, he reminded himself.

"Do people seriously believe in this," he asked, his surprise by no means feigned.

"I couldn't say. I never know if the people who read horoscopes do, either. I just know that people make money with it. Which I do not intend to do. I will give you this book as a present, if you want it. That should help remind you to not take it too seriously."

"You mentioned that references to ancient historians weren't incorrect," Harry said. It was a question, actually, and later, when reviewing this talk, he would be utterly surprised about his own sneakiness, for that was what it was. He wanted the book at all costs. A muggle book on magic, for Merlin's sake! How could he resist something as strange as that? He knew he was channelling Hermione here, but that worried him less than the option of not getting this book.

"Those that I recognise are correct, and the author cites all his sources, so you could check them for yourself."

"In that case I 'll take it. But I do not mind paying for it. If nothing else it will amuse Hermione."

"Hermione is your studious friend, I take it. No, I insist. Let it never be said that I've sold a book on occultism. I am far too old to change my view of myself."

Harry looked questioningly at him, and the man smiled in return: "Best if you don't know, young man. Best if you don't know."

/

_a part of Harry that Harry hadn't known _

"You dirty halfblood! How dare you befoul the house of my ancestors?"

"Harry? Harry you are back! Where have you been?"

"Kreacher has prepared lunch for master, does Kreacher's master wish to eat in the winter garden or in the green dining room? The green dining room is now fit to be used by Kreacher's master and his wolf, if master so wishes."

Walpurga Black's portrait and Remus Lupin lost their respective voices. Even Harry was amazed. Never having heard anything but abuse from Mrs. Black he had come to assume that her portrait was incapable of normal speech. However, it seemed that the moving picture was also capable of being shocked into silence.

Harry was the first to recover: "Thank you Kreacher. I'd like to eat in the green dining room. Remus, will you join me? We can talk over lunch."

Remus was looking from Kreacher to the portrait and back. Kreacher's stance was gracefully rigid; his demeanour was respectfully oppressive.

The pillow case was clean and starched. Kreacher radiated stoicism and patience with his supposedly betters.

The portrait was radiating hate and despair, as Mrs. Black looked ready to burst into terminal tears. Poor Mrs. Black, Remus Lupin thought for the first and last time in his life. Pure blood supremacist thwarted by house-elf. Obviously, Remus had no idea in just how august company Mrs. Black was in this her defeat.

"Why, yes," he finally managed to say. "Lunch in the green dining room, why not? Where is the green dining room?"

"Master Harry please follow Kreacher."

The green dining room, newly free of pests and dust was a far friendlier room than one might have expected of Grimmauld Place's previous occupants. Harry wondered if Kreacher had completely redecorated a room so that it fit his new masters' requirements. He would ask him later, he decided. He had a lot to learn about house-elves and was not going to neglect it. He had much to learn, and he was not going to neglect any of it, actually. Remus was either too relieved to have him back or simply waiting for Harry to confess his sins of his own accord. Harry was familiar with a great many interrogation techniques and he was not going to tell more than he wanted to share. But what did he want to share? How much would he have to share in order to find things out in turn?

Thank Merlin for lunch; it gave them something to do while his mind was furiously considering possibilities. Also, it was quite good and he was hungry. He wondered how Kreacher had known what Harry and Remus liked.

"Remus? Do you know how elves know what to do for their families?" He studiously avoided the word 'master'. No reason to point out that Kreacher has suddenly accepted him as such.

"Their bond allows them a certain insight into their masters' needs and preferences," said Remus who had noticed it all by himself. How could he have not? "I understand that this knowledge comes to them like intuition. They simply know some things, just as they simply know who is part of their bonded family and who isn't."

"I wondered if the nasty things Kreacher would say under his breath when we came here where his own opinion or simply what his old masters would have said. For example, when I asked him Andromeda Tonks-"

"You asked him about Andy? Why? Did you meet her, was anything wrong?" Remus suddenly sounded very worried.

"Of course you'd know Andromeda. No, I've never met her. I just thought that it could be a good idea to ask Kreacher about his bonded family, that maybe he'd warm to me if I showed interest in them. As you see it worked."

Remus broke into a wide grin: "Harry, that was a brilliant idea, absolutely brilliant. Did you read something that made you try that or did you think of it yourself?"

The odd thing was that Remus pleasure in Harry's idea appeared – felt, even though Harry had no idea how he would feel something like that – genuine. Yet he was interrogating him: Whom had he met, to whom had he talked, where was he going, what was he reading. Some of this questions would have been natural interest and care. All of them together made Harry swear inwardly.

"I just wondered what to do about him, and thought, you know, human interest. It was the polite thing to do. I am living in his house, after all, no matter that he is an elf."

Remus smiled warmly: "It is only polite, of course, but most wizards have very little regard for the feelings of magical creatures. "

"Yeah, those heads on the wall were a hint, " Harry said. Remus snickered.

"Do you know anything about the origin of that bond, Remus?" Two people could ask questions, and Harry was not going to leave the Quaffle to the other team.

Remus looked pensive: "No, I don't. That is, I have heard a couple of stories but they are all different. It is one of these things that are like that because they were always like that. You know."

Remus knew about the Quaffle, too, and he knew how not to keep it when it did not suit him.

"No common points? Pity," said Harry. "It would have been too easy, I suppose."

"Harry, where were you today?"

"I went for a walk in Muggle London. Looked at some shops, enjoyed the weather."

"Muggle London? Why not Diagon Alley?"

"Why should I? I had nothing to do there, and it occurred to me that there is more to London than two hidden streets, and that since I live here now I might just as well have a look at everything. "

"But what would interest you about Muggle London? All your friends are wizards, Harry," Remus persisted.

Now this comment would have merited a little explosion, Harry thought detachedly.

Whose fault was it that Harry only knew wizards, was one angle. So, what, was another. Was he supposed to ignore nine tenths of the world because they wear more modern clothes? Were wizards one tenth of the world population or were they less? Was Remus trying to imply that Harry should not be interested in Muggles?

Harry had spend ten miserable years with the Dursleys, far too much time with rigorous restrictions as to what he was allowed to see and know of the world. He would not accept new restrictions just because they were a reversal of the old ones.

"Remus, I am happy to tell you what I did and where I went. If you want me to warn you next time I leave the house I will do that, too. If you want to come along next time I won't mind, either, but do not tell me what I am supposed to like. I know that myself, thank you very much."

"Harry, you realise that the world is less safe for you than for other people, don't you?"

"I do realise that I lived in Surrey for ten years and no one tried to snatch me on my way to school and back, or at any other time when I was neither in the house nor with my wonderful blood relatives. Anyway, what do you expect, a Death Eater attack on the City? The old Death Eaters are too busy pretending that they have turned into proper members of society and their precious Lord is nothing but a bloody bodiless shadow. Do you really think they will lift a finger for him now? The only danger I've ever faced outside Hogwarts was Sirius, for god's sake!"

"Harry, you have no idea about Voldermort's whereabouts or plans."

"Surprise, Remus: Neither do you, or anyone who isn't bloody Lord Voldemort."

"We know what he wants, Harry."

"We think we do. What we know is that he has no body, and that in this state he can possess one person at a time."

"Harry, be sensible," Remus said tiredly.

"I will gladly consider it after you tell me exactly what you mean by being sensible and why that is supposed to be good for me. I want to cooperate, but I will not accept hiding in this house and being told nothing at all about things that concern me. "

The Harry that Harry knew would have shouted. At the very least he would have been fuming, would have spoken in a voice trembling with barely suppressed anger.

This Harry that Harry was now meeting for the first time in his life, however, was a different person. Presumably he had manifested spontaneously in the course of the last couple of weeks, although there had been traces of him in the other Harry's life. It might have been him who would talk back to the Dursleys, who would keep his self-respect no matter what that would cost him. It was the person who had planned and managed Hagrid's lessons. Harry had met the courageous Harry; he knew him quite well by now, the one who would go after Dark Lords, Basilisks and stand between Sirius and a nearly demented with rage Snape.

The new Harry was the one who knew and planned in advance. The loss of Hermione, as old Harry saw it, might have contributed to the solidification of this Harry. He had very nearly lost the person who had stepped into this role for him back in second year, and somehow he had never gotten her back. Maybe that loss, painful as it had been, had triggered something. Maybe it was something that would have happened anyway as Harry got older. Harry himself felt that it was being happy: His life was far from perfect, with Sirius in St. Mungo's and a Remus, who, as Kreacher insisted, was nothing but a mouthpiece for Albus Dumbledore _– tricky old wizard, dirty old wizard, left Kreacher's family die out, dirty old man heavy with secrets, Kreacher knows, sneaky old man, trying to steal from library of Kreacher's masters, tries to take things out of Kreacher's masters' house, thieving old man – _

But now, for the first time in is life Harry was neither with the Dursleys nor at Hogwarts: Neither being treated like dirt, nor being subjected to the mood swings of an entire school; pupils as well as teachers. No one was shouting at him, no-one was complaining about him as if he weren't present, causing Harry to retreat into himself and lie low lest he attracted irrational irk.

But no-one was trying to kill him, either. No danger triggering the appearance of Hero Harry, no- one expecting him to save their sorry asses. No-one in the immediate vicinity, at any rate.

Time heals wounds. Harry had always healed in less time than others; his life and sanity had depended on it. Now, being in no imminent danger, rather than healing, Harry was growing.

:::

_and an epilogue in the thick of things_

"You need to be patient Harry," Sirius said seriously. "Remus means well. That's the whole problem, really. He, too, lost his family when you did. We were his family, not just his friends. Now he got two of us unexpectedly back and he is besides himself with worry that something might happen to you. Or to me, I suppose," he added, smiling wryly.

Harry, still in Harry-the-Thinker mode, considered his godfather's assessment.

"There 's more to this than paranoia and over-protectiveness, Sirius. At times, when we talk, he seems to want to tell me things, or to explain something, but then he catches himself. Why would he do that if he wasn't following another person's instructions?"

"You believe in Kreacher's theories about Dumbledore," Sirius said non committally. "You realise that that elf has spend ten years taking insane orders from portraits?"

And whose fault is that, Harry did not ask. Sirius was being careful, he knew that. He was being everything that Dumbledore had implicated he would not be, namely calm and non confrontational. Unless you were one of the healers, Harry supposed. Interestingly, when he had talked to one of them about Sirius's awful manners towards them the healer had said that patients sometimes would choose to vent their frustration on them rather than on their respective families. The other way around was more common, the healer had said, and that he personally preferred serving as the target himself as anger needed venting and he knew to not take it personally. Now, if Harry would come along, he wanted to check if the potions he had prescribed were taking effect as they should. Sirius remarks about his treatment had alerted Harry to his own less-than-healthy upbringing. Hogwarts food and his stays at the infirmary had, in a roundabout way, taken care of most of his problems, according to the two healers who had examined him. Potions were extremely efficient medicine, Harry realised. A potion for the after effects of a broken bone, for example, would benefit the whole skeleton, if the subject was young and still growing. Still, they had suggested that he take some additional potions for "his nerves", not clarifying whether they were referring his temper, the cells that connected his organs with his brain or both.

It would be some time till even the new Harry realised that the healers were being spectacularly discreet, that Madam Pomfrey might have been the same, or that their nonchalant attitude towards Sirius might have originated in the general events of the past couple of months. Harry-the-Thinker was unpractised, and he had spend most of the weeks that had rocked the wizarding world in the comparative isolation of Hogwarts Castle.

"Elves mend fast. A little interest in your family was all it took for Kreacher to turn into a quintessential English butler," Harry said. "He's even taken to wearing starched pillow-cases, did I tell you that?"

Sirius grinned broadly: "Really? Like the guy in the books you bought me?"

Remus had insisted on accompanying Harry to his next Tour de Londres. Harry had included more book shops, having had the bright idea to buy a couple of 'funny novels' for Sirius's amusement. Both of them having no idea what to actually buy they had stuck to the classics, as the shop assistant had called them. They had re-emerged from the shop with a collection of very gaudy paperbacks. Harry had not resisted the temptation to add some fantasy and science fiction. Remus had laughed tears. Sirius, sensing that he was about to become the butt of a joke had chosen the book with the least disconcerting cover and met Jeeves. He was now assuming that they had meant to frighten him with the idea of human servants – preposterous, of course, but funny, once you got over the initial shock. Imagine, a servant who managed his masters!

Harry was optimistic that this false sense of security would soon lead him to pick up a book about celibate wizards and he grinned in anticipation: "Better. You 'll see."

"Pup, I know that smirk and I know how to deal with it. Prank me at your peril is all that I will say. Now, about Remus. He will calm down soon, you'll see. Remus was never as crazy a risk taker as James or I, but he has his own sense of humour. It is just a question of him starting to trust his environment again."

"Being a werewolf is that hard, isn't it?"

"You have no idea. With recent laws especially it is practically an invitation to have friends in high places or be exploited and mistreated. There's currently a proposal for a law that's making the rounds among the families with seats in the Wizengamot. If it gets approved it will be a penalty to not inform people about your werewolf status."

Harry shivered: "How about a law for free distribution of Wolfsbane potion by hospitals? Would make much more sense. It's not as if they weren't giving out all sorts of shit."

Sirius raised an eyebrow: "Shit, Harry?"

"Vastly useful concoctions that happen to taste badly. You know what I mean. Are you still on mirth in a cup and Dreamless Sleep?"

"Dreamless Sleep, and one drop of Felix Felicis every now and then. My current prison guards have decided that making me crave the occasional happy moment will work better than keeping me permanently high. I think that someone may have instructed them on human nature while I wasn't looking." He then grinned like a dog, and Harry realised that he'd rather not wonder what Sirius meant. Not if he wanted to avoid terminal embarrassment.

"Canine nature, you mean. They have realised that the best they can do is to show you a bone but not give it to you."

Sirius grinned even wider. What had Harry said?

"That's what I said. Pup. But I am not complaining. It makes no sense to get stuck in the distant past because that is supposed to be where my happy memories are."

"Aren't they there, in the time before Azkaban?"

"I'll tell you a secret, Harry. The Dementors start with your happiest memories, just as you learned at school. Normally they kill their victims fast. If you stay alive, though, they move on to the shreds of happiness in your everyday memories, turning every single memory, good or bad or neutral into a burden. Random strangers become irritating fools and friends become monsters without a single redeeming quality. And it won't be lies that you will be seeing. It will be your friends' actual bad sides, only they will have eclipsed all the good ones."

"You mean-" Harry stopped himself. Hagrid had told him about constantly relieving the worst moments on his life, but Hagrid, thankfully, had not stayed in Azkaban for long. Harry saw now that afterwards Professor Dumbledore had hastened to provide Hagrid with something really big and positive in his life, namely the post of Professor for Care of Magical Creatures. Something to look forward to, to keep him from brooding over the past. But why wasn't he seeing that Sirius needed the same? Harry knew that Dumbledore had been in favour of the original treatment.

"I mean that I know that Remus, through no mistake of his own, is leading a godsawful life, and that he is the worse for it. But this is something I know intellectually. There is no positive feeling towards my old friend. Yet." Here Sirius stopped, and looked away. "I hope that I will get there," he finally continued quietly. "I will get there, if I only keep reminding myself of what I know to be true."

...and Sirius was studiously avoiding the topic of Dumbledore, new Harry noticed, but Harry proper was in too much of an inner turmoil to make anything but a mental note of that.

"Are you all the time like this," he asked timidly. He did not dare mention his parents, now. He had been looking forwards to Sirius's stories about them, but now? How could he ask, knowing that Sirius had to remind himself that they had not been- what? What would they have turned into, during twelve years in hell? What else to call a place were the souls of living human being were eaten one piece at a time? Why not kill them for heaven's sake, and be done with it?

"I hope that you are not afraid to ask me about James and Lily, Harry. I need to talk about them as much as possible. I need to start remembering them properly."

* * *

><p><strong>Misc:<strong> The book seller's views on occultism are a toned-down version of things I've heard by similar people. I am not actually trying to insult anyone here.

Things are still happening in a roundabout way. I wanted to give Harry a nice time before I start throwing things at him. Also, in my experience things do happen in roundabout ways, and tend to be more interesting for it. I will tone down my attempts at stream-of-consciousness, though.


	5. Sometime else

Playing around with JKR's action figures. They are so very, very flexible.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Interlude, <strong>_

_**Wherein time hasn't passed**_

_**Yet  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>Hogwarts, January 1945<p>

Tom Marvolo Riddle had excellent acoustic recall. He did not forget things he had heard. Ever.

He had discovered this gift early and had set to cultivate it. People would impart pieces of useful information (sometimes) and Tom would recall it (always). The first steps had been: Learn what is important and what isn't. Learn who is likely to say something important, and when, and be there when they do it. That had been back in the orphanage, of course. He attended school, of course. It was no challenge. In the orphanage he had had but few opportunities to use this information. There was not much that the other wards could give him (though what there was he took) and the line between them and the personnel was too much. So he had simply practised.

In Hogwarts he had – for the first time – been confronted with seemingly important information that was actually directed at him. Seemingly, because he had soon discovered that the professors where withholding the really important parts. That was the information of how the bits and pieces he learned in various lessons had to be combined with each other so that they would start to resonate. This resonance – he knew instinctively – was the key.

Tom's second gift was his ambition. He was not content with recalled information. He realised that he would have to organise and to augment it. This was what people of inferior intelligence called 'learning'. Tom did not doubt that one day he would find things that he would have to learn, truly learn. He had found a couple of them in Hogwarts, already, but rarely during lessons. Lessons were where more information was imparted, most of the time (Hogwarts was not a bad school, he had decided). Tom stored it, organised it for efficient recall and enriched it with more information that he retrieved himself from books. The fact that he had to read those books aloud in order to store their contents in his remarkable memory did not bother him any more than any other of his many secrets. For it was a secret, as everything relevant about Tom.

Tom took notes, sometimes. It pleased him to arrange tiny bits of information on paper before reading them aloud. He literally liked moving text and pictures on a piece of parchment around, the charm for this being a result of an idea during a boring lesson and a rainy weekend spend in the library. That had been his first spell creation, achieved shortly before the end of his first year. He had subsequently found out that while he could not delete words or pictures from magically printed books, he could persuade the printed elements of a page to temporarily hide beneath each other. He had used that in many happy pranks directed at people who had dared best him in class, and a professor or two.

Also, it was practice for the day when he would find something worthy of his attention.

NEWTS weren't. The true secret of excellent performance in tests is being prepared for more than you are supposed to be, and Tom had reached that goal ...oh, some time ago.

Right now he was meditating on the topic of his many friends. Friends being important people with whom one was friendly, as opposed to necessary people whom one treated friendly for now.

The person with whom everyone wanted to be on friendly terms being Tom. Which meant that all was as it should be.

But.

He was about to leave Hogwarts, and he wasn't happy about that for two reasons: First, the legendary Chamber of Secrets had been a wash out. Nothing in it but a ruddy basilisk. He'd been sorely tempted to kill the beast and harvest it for potion ingredients.

He hadn't.

He was going to stay in wizarding Britain for now, and wizarding Britain was aware that he had no funds. His plans for the next two years were build on the poor-brilliant-orphan-theme, and it was a good plan. It wouldn't do to cramp it with goblins and banking accounts and the sudden interest of strangers.

Furthermore, there was still a chance, albeit a small one, that Slytherin himself had left something behind. The so-called Chamber of Secrets wasn't his, Tom had ascertained that much.

He hadn't had time for more. In 1941, the Ministry of Magic had evacuated London. Even before that Hogsmeade had been flooded with the former residents of the coast towns. Headmaster Dippet would had been happy to open the castle for important 'visitors'. Unfortunately, the castle had enough of a consciousness to know that it was a school and lacked all the communication channels via which it could have been persuaded to accept non-academic residents. Still, between the now year-round resident students, their visiting families, visiting officials and the professors who had been involved in the war against Grindelwald, Hogwarts had been an unusually busy place.

In this climate Tom had studied, refined his blackmail style and picked up additional people skills. If the food was less opulent than it was said to be in peace times, he had been spared the yearly return to the orphanage, which would have been his lot. It was little things like this that gave people an appreciation for war.

Solitary explorations of the castle weren't possible, though. From 1941 to 1945, no students left for the holidays and hardly anyone was allowed to go to the bursting, chaotic and dangerous place that had been Hogsmeade. War-time Hogwarts was constantly packed with irritated youngsters. It was enough to make a person a pacifist.

The Chamber, and Hogwarts, would have to wait, but how could he, Tom, wait, with the spectre of Albus Dumbledore huge on the horizon? Tom had hoped that his least favourite professor would allow himself to be swept away by the glory of the defeater of Grindelwald. Dumbledore had done no such thing. He had calmly returned to the school and resumed teaching.

Tom had debated this decision within himself. It had led him towards an appreciation for long-term tactics.

Let the Chamber be, for now. He had excellent plans in motion that did not require it. It might come in useful, later. For now he would leave Hogwarts and make use of his friends. But leaving Hogwarts meant leaving one of them behind, and Tom had absolutely no idea what to do about that.

Tom had been excited to meet an actual pupil of the great Mage Bathseba Babbling, whose works had challenged and ultimately redefined the basic concepts of Runic Magic. Babbling had taught at Hogwarts but for a very short time in the late 17th century. He had been taken aback to realise that the cheery ghost had been a beginner, but her intuitive grasp of the matter had soon convinced him that she must have been an important pupil. She had always understood everything Tom had told her, which was more than what could be said about any of his classmates. The thought that he had taught a student of Babbling from her future had elated him. Maybe the girl was one of the two students who had disappeared with Professor Babbling in that much much discussed explosion in 1682? Her spectre had become increasingly solid during the two years of his acquaintance with her. The Hogwarts ghosts simply _were_; their presence did not change their surroundings. This one did. He had not managed to ascertain that he had always been awake when he had met her, only that he had been awake sometimes. No other pupil had ever talked to her. No professor had seen her. Their discussions had sometimes bordered on the bizarre. Tom had become increasingly convinced that she was not a mere ghost. It might have been his personal lead to the solution of one of the greatest mysteries of the last 500 years.

Then, in 1943, a distant relative of the great Babbling had enrolled at Hogwarts. The girl, named for her great-great-great aunt had started Runes early and shown some talent in them, too. Tom, realising that he had allowed for his judgement to be clouded by the intellectual restrictions of normal people had banged his head on wall for roughly a week. The discussions had not been bizarre. The ghost simply wasn't born yet. Damn Hogwarts and their school robes, unchanged since foundation, for robbing him of any clothes-related clues.

Anyway.

The dream-like atmosphere of the meetings had made him keep written records of their discussions. He had checked each and any of the books they had mentioned and noticed that she had mentioned notes in the margins that weren't there. Did that mean that he had left them? Should he?

He did not feel like leaving notes for generations of Hogwarts pupils to see. Then, there was still a possibility that his original assessment had been correct.

And then there was the even more exciting possibility that she had seen notes that he had left; what if he did not leave them now? Tom was unduly fascinated with Divination, or the question of when the future became solid. If the past could be changed. Destiny. That sort of thing.

He now had the chance to experiment.

He would have to be very careful indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors Notes:<strong>

I adore each and every one of my reviewers (all four of you. No, all three. You write very elating reviews and I do not see how I could adore more people at a time, anyway (but I will work on it.)) **  
><strong>

I have been wondering for quite some time about the parallel universe where HP takes place. You know, the one where there is a WWII with an evil warlock thrown in but without London Blitz and without evacuations. I decided to include them, as they gave me a possibility to grant young Tom a respite from himself _without_ making him a better person.

Also, I hope that I have shed a little light on Hermione activities during the third year without explaining how it could have happened. That is for a later chapter.

The current chapter was written under the influence of 'Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency'. I figured that THE DOOR should have a key; THE KEY, in fact.


	6. Wherein Angels are discussed

The plot is mine. Nothing else is.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3,<strong>

**Wherein the standard behaviour of angels **

**Is discussed**

* * *

><p>Harry and Ron are playing their fourth game of Exploding Snap. The trolley has just passed them, and Hermione is nowhere to be seen.<p>

"We should go and look for her in the train," Harry suggests.

"Mate, if we leave here and start walking around we'll just miss her. You know how it is on the train."

Do I, Harry wonders. It's an old fashioned train. One corridor, many compartments. And there's two of us, we could go into one direction each. He didn't say anything, however. It was clear that Ron does not want to go.

Harry does not want to irritate Ron. The Weasleys and Harry went to the Quidditch World Cup together. Actually, Ron had invited both Harry and Hermione to stay at The Burrow for a week and for the game.

Hermione's letter had come from Malta. She would not be able to make it, but thank you very much, enjoy yourselves, see you on September first. So Harry went without her, at Sirius insistence, and regretted it. Previously he'd enjoyed, no: loved every minute he'd spend at the Weasley family home. This year however something had been somehow ….out of tune. Possibly Harry himself.

Harry had de-gnomed the garden with Ginny, chatted about Runes with Percy, inspected Arthur Weasley's newest machinery parts, made breakfast for everyone and discussed the marvellous Viktor Krum and his heroically dangerous Quidditch manoeuvres with Ron until Mrs Weasley had threatened to burn their brooms (and Harry himself had wondered whether there was a coming-out in his near future). Ginny had chatted with him about Quidditch and her new electives, Percy had congratulated him on his newly found responsibility & studiousness and shared advice on Runes.

Mr Weasley had interrogated him about the Black Library and Mrs Weasley had demanded to know if he had to make breakfast at 'his godfather's place, too'. Was it just him or were they really attacking Harry's newly found family? (They do qualify as a familiy, both under the original meaning of the word and because Sirius, Remus, and even Kreacher care for each other.)

The twins had earned Harry's eternal gratitude by raining sardonic humour on all of them.

The Quidditch World Cup had been great, all the more for Mr Weasley having somehow managed to get seats in the Top Box. They had all made fools of themselves when the Veela had appeared, cheered for Ireland and admired the Wronski Feint. Harry had wondered idly what Hermione would have thought about everything. For his birthday he had received a box with Maltese sweets (with sugar!) and a "History of Notable Pranks, Duels and Executions" by a Professor Viridian Vindictus. The book was a treasure trove of offensive hexes and charms but so unlike Hermione, as a choice, that Harry worried his friend had been body-snatched.

For her birthday he had bought her copies of several muggle books he had bought for himself (Runes, meditation techniques, mathematics, musical theory... Harry had visited many more book shops and discovered many more books) and a box with self-refilling unbreakable ink bottles in 10 colours for her note-taking. He had acquired three of those. Ron had given his to Ginny, who had smacked him soundly but thanked Harry effusively.

"Where are you going, Harry? Hermione will find us, you'll see!"

"Course she will. I am just going to the bathroom."

"All right. Want to play chess when you are back?"

Trust Ron to start discussions with people who had urgent calls of nature to answer: "Sure. Get the board ready."

Harry doesn't mind being destroyed at chess every now and then. It's funny: the gap between what Ron can do (when interested) and what he will do (when not interested, which is most of the time) is wide enough for Hagrid to fall through, Harry thinks Fondly, because he likes Ron. Listening to Mrs Weasley berating him for not being Percy has reminded him of that. If the twins can't be bothered to use their arguably immense brains (Ginny has given him a preview on their newest inventions) for good marks then Harry did not see why Ron should. Frankly, Ron is a future star keeper (if he can get over his unfortunate passion for the Chudley Cannons).

Two hours later (Ron offered an analysis of how Harry should have played. Harry, true to his new motto of trying to learn everything once is listening attentively) their compartment door opens and admits a thin, tanned girl with a ponytail. The boys have no idea who she is.

"Will it help if I ask if you two revised over summer," Hermione asks after a moment.

Ron's explosive "Merlin! Mione, what happened to you?" almost drowns out Harry's quieter: "Hermione? Where have you been? We were waiting for you."

Hermione sits down next to Harry: "I was talking to Susan and Padma. "

She is rewarded with twin hurt expressions and hastens to explain: "Sorry, you two. I meant to come earlier but the girls and I had things to discuss. We'll be doing a number of things together, this year." She knows she's grimacing. It's that she minds Susan or Padma. Quite the contrary, she likes them a lot. She just does not care for the summer she's had. She is still recovering from it.

Harry and Ron are still looking somehow frightened at her, so she sighs deeply starts her report: "My parents decided last spring that they had to regain what athletic form they'd had in their youth." (That's slightly unfair. Her mother had never stopped running five miles in the morning before work.) "Apparently they felt that my cognitive faculties would benefit from extra oxygen and more muscle tissue, so they took care to provide me with ample opportunities to acquire both."

Like renting a holiday house on a hill in the middle of nowhere and buying her a bike. And that had only been the beginning.

"Thankfully I found a magical apothecary in Marseille or I would have died of lactate poisoning in the first week."

"Er... Mione? What are you talking about?"

"Sports, Ron. I have spend two long months driving a bike over hilly landscape. You won't believe how many hills there are at the Côte d'Azur."

Harry doubts that Ron knows what a bike is, or why one wouldn't like to drive one, but he has more pressing questions: "Hermione? That's in southern France. Your last letter came from Malta."

"Oh, yes. We inspected magical schools, too. There's a very promising one on Gozo. It's run by an old order of wizards, calling themselves the Maltese Falcons. Sounds like a Quidditch team, if you ask me," she says dismissively. She thinks she'll let that remark sink in. It doesn't take long.

"What?" her two oldest friends ask in something close to panic. It's heart-warming, it really is.

"My parents wanted to withdraw me from Hogwarts. Susan's aunt managed to talk them out of it, or I wouldn't be here." That wasn't exactly an explanation, was it? "They had a number of complaints about Hogwarts curriculum. You won't believe it, but sports was a major point."

("Let's accept that people can't learn magic without mentally descending into the High Middle Ages," her mother had sneered. She was a sneerer of great talent: "Can't they be consequent, at least? You could be fencing, or riding, or playing King's tennis!" Dr Evelyn Granger had been less rational than she'd been angry, but considering how unbelievably angry she'd been, there had been enough ratio left for her to make a point.)

"Really," Harry asks tentatively. He, of course, had never had a very rounded education, but he was aware of the concept of athleticism as part of a healthy life. The last thing he'd heard about Dudley was that his school nurse has ordered him to diet, and Sirius's healers have said things in the same vein.

"Yeah. Unbelievable, isn't it?" Hermione does not really want to discuss her parents' _other_ problems with their only daughter's education. She's still glad that they had never heard about the extracurricular dangers she's faced during her first three years.

"Well." Harry feels less than eloquent. He also feels strongly that the lack of athletic activities hadn't been the real problem of the Granger family. "Whatever you did, it looks good on you. If that helps any."

It does, and Hermione smiles broadly: "Really? Thank you, Harry! Tell, me did you like your birthday presents?"

She's definitely eager to change topic, so Harry obliges: "Yeah. The dead man's bones were fantastic."

"Please tell me that you aren't talking about real bones," Ron interjects.

"It's a sweet pastry from Malta, Ron. With almonds, not bones. Didn't you get any? I have some more, somewhere with my stuff. I can look for them if you want to try some."

Seeing Ron hesitate to accept an offer of potentially weird sweets Harry decides to help both his friends out: "They were really good, Ron. Unusual, but good."

"Oh. Right. Wait, you send Harry sweets? Real sweets, with sugar in them?"

Hermione's smile widens even more and now Harry sees what else had changed: her two front teeth have been shrunk. But Ron hasn't noticed that and Hermione herself has not said a thing about them, so Harry decides it's better to not mention it. Settle down first. Get re-acquainted with each other. Talk later. (Maybe she fell from her bike and hurt herself and is embarrassed about it.) A little while later Ron excuses himself. So to say. Harry can see Hermione shudder but refrains from commenting.

"You've changed a lot yourself, Harry. How is life with Sirius? How is Sirius?"

"Great. It's really great, even though he was only discharged from St Mungo's in August. "

"Damn. Wizards don't do things by halves when they torture, do they?"

Is she talking about Azkaban or about St. Mungo's? Harry decides to assume the former: "Inmates are not supposed to survive Azkaban, I am pretty sure of that."

"Hmph. So, what did you do, other than the Quidditch World Cup?"

Harry grins: "I studied a lot. The Black Library is full of Dark books, of course, but it is still extremely interesting. I found several really interesting things in muggle London, too. Did you study any muggle books on early history and runes? I found some that really helped me understand what I was trying to do."

Hermione's eyes are going to part company with their sockets, she knows it: "Harry James Potter? Is that really you?"

"Want to check the scar," Harry asks, still grinning. Reciprocating Hermione's surprise with a surprise of his own.

Hermione leans back and looks at him. She then shakes her head: it's unbelievable. This is how Harry is when he was at peace with himself? Merlin's pants with snitches on them, she thinks fervently, unaware of how colourful her inner monologue has become in two short months. Damn damn and damn, she continues in a more traditional manner. Was he really so badly off before, and she had never realised it?

Harry is smiling at her. He doesn't seem to think that noticing how unhappy he was was his friends' responsibility, but Hermione does (and Hermione is not one to cut herself slack for having been young and inexperienced).

Merlin! 'Humbling experience' doesn't begin to cover it.

...there were always things to learn, it seemed, and many of them were not covered – or, indeed, mentioned – in books. She always knew that, of course. But know she _knows._

_.o00o._

Lavender joins them in the horseless carriage to the castle. Susan has taken another carriage with Hannah and the two Patils. They ride in silence, though Ron is visibly shaken by the unexpected intrusion.

The Welcoming Feast is as exactly as it had been the years before. Everything seems normal until Dumbledore announces that there would be no Quidditch that year.

The Great Hall roars as if it'd come alive. The High Table rolls their eyes, sneers, snickers, looks on with sympathy. Dumbledore smiles benevolently and gives the students some time to calm down again. Then, deciding that the students have composed themselves as much as they ever will, he speeks again. Hogwarts will be hosting a historic and newly re-instated tournament. It used to be known for ending with less contestants than it begun with, Dumbledore explains serenely. It is an honour for their school, he says.

The twins loudly declare that it sucks and Harry agrees. Hogwarts grounds are huge. Why do they need to sacrifice their Quidditch pitch? He hopes that the spectacle would be worth it, but he doubts it.

"It's obviously not the same as flying" Hermione says tentatively, "but I've got a shrunken exercise bike in my trunk. You can use it if you get too restless."

"A bike," Harry asks in surprise. "Why don't you just run?"

"Better time management," she answers. "I can exercise whenever I can make time, and don't need to worry that it will be too dark outside. Will be easier in winter, too. I do not want to run around in the snow, to tell you the truth."

"Me neither. The cold on the brooms is bad enough. Speaking of brooms, Malfoy didn't return this year, either, it seems."

"Ah. Actually, Harry." Hermione looks around. Most people are still busy shouting their respective opinions about the Triwizard Tournament (that's its name), but she has news to share that are too explosive to risk being overheard:

"Meet me later in the library, ok? And take those muggle books of yours along, I am curious."

Another brilliant smile; if Harry keeps smiling like this she'll soon have to beat back people with a stick just to talk to him, Hermione thinks. Harry-at-peace is a hot young man.

"What," she asks sharper than necessary (These thoughts about Harry's brilliant really have to go away), "are the books too heavy?"

"No, it's just that I'll have to give you your birthday present in advance. On the other hand, it'd be stupid not to, wouldn't it? They are supposed to complement your school books."

Hermione stares at him: "You bought those books for me, too? Harry, that's so sweet of you!"

"What is sweet, Hermione," asks Ginny (who's been listening in all the time).

"Harry bought books for my birthday!" Hermione squeaks happily.

"Ah. He bought me a set with multi-coloured ink for notes. Actually, he bought it for Ron, but the prat did not want it."

Harry experiences a moment of displeasure. He had just decided to keep the ink set for Hermione's actual birthday in two weeks. But if she says now that she would have liked such as set-

"Ron didn't?" Hermione exclaims, voice still at a rather high register. "But it's dead useful! I use multi-coloured ink myself!"

Of course, Hermione has her old set. No problem then. Ginny and Hermione are now discussing which colours they prefer for each subject. Harry's summer meditation culminated in a mild synaesthetic episode that hasn't worn off entirely. Harry joins the discussion.

_.0.0.0._

Madam Pince shot them only one dirty glance when they came in. She is still in a happy, post-holiday mood. Harry and Hermione choose a table under a window, as far away from the shelves as possible, and Harry does a localised noise-distortion charm: short invocation, subtle wand movement, Hermione manages to see. Designed for use in crowded rooms?

"I want to know this one," she comments. "Is it from the Black Library?"

"Oh yes. What they do not know about stealth and disguises isn't worth knowing. I think they may have written half of all the books on these topics themselves."

"Do you think that Sirius will allow me to look at the books or will he fuss about the danger?"

"Are you you kidding me? He will tutor you if you promise to put it to good use. Sirius believes in being pro-active." So he does. Kill a rat now, talk to Aurors later.

"The best defence is a good offence, or so they say."

"Ron says it's my main problem with chess," Harry agrees drily. "Personally I think that the board hates me and rearranges itself whenever I blink. And I believe that you wanted to tell me something, not that I mind chatting, of course."

"Merlin, yes. I need to tell you something, indeed. Frankly, I need to say it aloud. It makes no sense in my head."

"That bad?"

_Worse._ Hermione braces herself: "The night before I took the Hogwarts Express Lucius Malfoy came to our house. Apparated directly into the living room. Displaced air cracked two vases."

Harry's jaw drops. Hermione looks around and takes another deep breath: "He said that our memories had been modified several times, and that he would- that he would restore them. You see, I've read about that. It is called Obliviation and the only thing to do is store your memories in advance in a magical container and watch them later. Healers can tell if someone's memories have been modified but they can't restore them." She is speaking rather fast now. "Malfoy said that there was a new method utilising muggle brain research. You know, how when a part of the brain gets damaged then other parts are capable of learning and taking over the functions of the damaged part?"

"No," Harry whispers Malfoy? Talking about muggle research?

"Me neither. I do not think Malfoy knew what he was talking about. Someone had told him something and he had misunderstood it so badly that he was talking utter rubbish. But he knew the invocation, and he performed it on all three of us."

"And then?"

"My parents' and my memories after the second year had been incomplete. You and I had agreed to spend our holidays together and evaluate my notes on Riddle's diary."

"God. Yes. But I knew that."

"You did? But Harry! I mean, I know, we barely talked last year, but why didn't you tell me? I would have asked you if you had- I mean, if I had remembered that you were supposed to visit and you hadn't turned up!"

It is Harry's turn to brace himself: "I remember that you wrote me later and told me that your parents were having difficulties with each other. And so I went to Ron's instead. The Dursleys did not want me to stay for longer than necessary and were glad to see me leave. And then I saw you again at school last year and you were so chipper. And someone told me that it was your way of dealing with your parents' problems, and not to talk to you about it, lest I made it worse for you."

"Who told you that," Hermione asks in a very, very low voice. "My parents' memories had been modified to that effect, too, Harry. I need to know. They'd been fighting all year long over problems they did not have! My fucking holidays were a freaking bonding experience," Hermione hisses.

Small stones make wide ripples in a calm pond, and their thoughts had been hit with boulders.

Harry speeks first: "That bad?"

"You have no idea. And," she adds, "I sort of remembered it all the time. You see, I never dream, or never remember my dreams, at any rate. And I never get frightened from silly stories. Yet I had that absolutely frightening dream about a Christian monk who had had a bad encounter with an angel."

"A monk had a problem with an angel? What the hell are you talking about?"

Could it be that he has heard so many unbelievable things and only stumbles over a mention of atypical angelic behaviour? Hermione is certainly amused, even though she still looks frightened. After a moment Harry starts snickering too.

"Right," Harry says after a while. "Somebody tampered with your brain, and your brain send you a symbolic message. Yes?"

"I think so."

"So, what was the message?"

"It was the story of the foundation of a monastery in Normandy. One of those medieval stories that make no sense to modern sensibilities."

The quoting voice. When Hermione is agitated she quots.

"Tell me about it," prompts Harry.

"This monk or bishop, I don't remember which, dreamed of an angel, and the angel told him to build a monastery for him. The monk was lazy and ignored it, so the angel reappeared and burned a hole in the monk's head. Using his fingertip, which apparently burned."

Hermione sounds thoroughly disgusted. Which is interesting, in Harry's opinion: "And you dreamed that, too?"

"Exactly. And now I think that an outstretched finger with a burning tip would look like a want with a glowing tip, if you don't look too closely."

"Hm. And how did you know that story anyway? If its not, as you say, modern?"

"After we- well, after you did not join us, my parents somehow decided to leave again for an extra holiday. And we ended there. Normandy. Where that monastery is."

"You aren't regular church goers, then?"

"My parents are agnostics, but we always visit any remarkable old churches that are to be found. Churches, ruins and museums. Do you think that is important?"

"I do not know what to think," Harry confesses "But, it seems obvious that if Malfoy could recover your memories, they must have been there, in your brains, all the time. No matter what wizards think of the matter. Your brain had been trying to tell you that something had happened, hadn't it? So, now I wonder, if your parents choice of what to do was a message in itself. I don't suppose you know anything about brain research?"

They are still ignoring the wizard for the angel, or the tectonic shift of reality for a talk on brain function. Coping under stress.

"Next to nothing. A bit about psychology. You know, popular opinions." She pauses, then she thinks of something else: "If two months away from the Dursleys are enough to turn you into a little scientist-"

"Turn me into you, you mean."

Hermione looks questioningly at her friend. The remark was meant as a compliment, she realises, and blushes: "I don't know. I, mean, I wonder what you'd been if you'd never went there. And... thank you."

Harry says nothing. He has been wondered about his life himself. One day especially, when he caught himself sitting outside Sirius's room with a book on Geometry and Topology that really fascinated him. A passing healer had commented on his studious habits, and Harry had paused and taken a look at himself, so to say: "I did not go there. To my relatives. And neither did they ask for me. I was forced on them."

That was the real shift in his world, Harry knows it. He has mellowed. Not into someone who likes other people indiscriminately, but certainly into someone who knows that actions often are reactions, and that other persons' reasons make sense to them, if not to him. He's being pragmatic, too: He wants his past life to be over and revenge is simply not so inviting as to keep him revisiting.

"And it doesn't matter. My being there was bad, for all of us. It's over now." He looks hopefully at her: "On a more interesting topic, we do now agree that you and I never had any real problems with each other?"

Hermione knows exactly what Harry means. They'd grown ...not apart, but politely distant during third year, and they regret it. There's only one thing to say, really: "We have to study. You and I."

Harry smiles. Hermione smiles: "Did you bring those books? I am dying with curiosity."

"Course I did. Did you know that there are muggles who believe in magic? I mean muggles who really think that there is magic and they can do it?"

"That's occultism. Oh Harry, don't tell me that you were reading occult literature!"

Harry laughs. Hermione just turned into the elderly, tweed-clad and possibly pipe-smoking owner of a book shop in London.

**oOooOo**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I am differentiating between memory modification and obliviation. I am treating obliviation as the destruction of a memory aka irreversible brain damage and memory modification as instant brain washing**.  
><strong>


	7. Tempering

We may be schizophrenic but we still aren't J.K. Rowling.

Being an awful person, I have added / substracted to / from this chapter since publishing it. I *have* to. I wonder how published authors survive not being able to do that, but I suspect drugs, depressions and printing presses guarded by editors with whips.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4,<strong>

**Wherein Snape teaches **

**and  
><strong>

**Metal is being tempered**

* * *

><p>Hermione has another box of Maltese sweets for her dorm mates, but her dorm mates are more interested in her new mechanical exercise bike. It stands at the foot of her four-poster bed in full menacing glory, saddle whispering tales of sore derrières. Thank all questionable angels for magical apothecaries and salves for Quidditch professionals, Hermione thinks. Not for the Quidditch professionals themselves, though. Did that guy actually tell her that he 'digged brainy chicks'? Dr Ernest Granger had laughed himself silly. Dr Evelyn Granger had remained pointedly silent. The relevant question being, how had she been recognised as brainy?<p>

"Where were you at the time and what was the last thing you said before it happened," Lavender asks expertly.

"Were you explaining something to someone, or were you maybe correcting them," adds Parvati.

It so happens that she hadn't been engaged in either of these activities. She had been sore and too irritated for talking.

"I was in an apothecary and had just asked for a muscle relaxant potion or ointment, but preferably the latter, and for a cough syrup. And that guy laughed and asked why a brainy chick like me would want the Quidditch package." She could not bring herself to repeat the rest. "And I may have sounded long-winded but try buying something like that in a foreign language, sometime. You talk with hands and feet or you speak Latin."

Parvati patts her hand: "There's no need to get defensive, Mi. We were just trying to help. So, are you really going to, er, exercise on this thing," she asks, pointing at the bike.

"I am supposed to. I expect I will, " Hermione concedes. She had come to enjoy biking. It had simply been a matter of figuring out all 21 gears, learning how not to brake lest she went flying overhead and that downhill was as tricky as uphill. After that she had started enjoying herself. This thing here however was not going to go anywhere. It was just for using one's legs without running out of space.

"I believe I've seen people using these things," Lavender says pensively. "but that was outside, and they were moving. Does this one move, too?"

"No, not this one. I have one that moves, it's still in my trunk, but I do not think I will be able to drive it on the grounds. It's a street bike." She hopes that term wasn't too technical for her dorm mates. Now in her fourth year in magical Britain she is still getting regularly astonished about what wizards did not know about things that the other nine tenths of the population use quite routinely. (How do wizards manage to never see any cyclists anyway? Like weeds cyclists are simply everywhere.)

"Does your mother use one of these," Lavender is now asking. Hermione looks somewhat guiltily at her parents' photograph on her bedside table. Dramatic summer notwithstanding, Hermione has a new picture of her parents. Same as after every holiday: "Only when she has time. She runs every morning."

"Really? Like a Quidditch player?"

Quidditch players, again! "Five miles every morning before work. Why?" Hopefully this is not about crushing on an athlete and wanting to impress him.

"Oh. Well. It's just, that, you know, she looks really good for her age, and she does not have any charms for her skin and figure, so-"

"Lav! Tell me you aren't worried about your figure!"

"Don't call me that," sniffs Lavender, who does worry.

Oh, right, Hermione remembers. Lavender does not appreciate being abbreviated from flower to toilet. Hermione apologises dutifully. Then: "I don't mind you using the exercise bike, Lavender. It's not complicated, I'll show you how to change the, er, gears and then you can do all the miles you want."

Lavender beams.

Much later Hermione is lying in bed and starring at the canopy. She has introduced Lavender to the bike and Parvati to the sweets. She met Harry at the library – even today full of Ravenclaws from every year and seventh years from all houses – resolved a number of outstanding issues with him and finally, _finally_ told someone about the completely unbelievable events of the previous evening.

They had talked a little about possible explanations: First scenario: it had not been Malfoy at all. Polyjuice and glamour spells sprang to mind. They had agreed to have a look into the latter, see if there was anything obvious about them. Second: it was Malfoy and he has been forced or persuaded. The former made more sense, for who could force – magically or otherwise – a Malfoy? Exactly. Voldemort was, as far as anyone knew, still little more than a spectre. Malfoy on the other hand was not the type to do things for spectres. Malfoy was a huge asset to Voldemort, precious in terms of money and influence. Malfoy still has his money and his connections, as well as his freedom and official status of a victim of the war. Would such a man let himself be used in as little rewarding a plot as this one? Of course not.

Even if the answer were a 'yes', and it couldn't be, it still left the question of who where the knowledge had come from. And how Malfoy had been convinced to do the deed.

If the visitor hadn't been Lucius then someone else was responsible. If it had been Lucius then someone else was responsible. But-

Hermione fell asleep.

In her dream she is drinking tea / muscle relaxant with the foundation of Hogwarts castle. Yes, the rocks. They serve Cornish Cream Tea (with splits, not with scones), make excellent conversation and share anecdotes about the founders. Fairly straightforward, as dreams go. After advising her to learn to fly, the foundation leans in and kissed Hermione on the forehead.

Hermione wakes up feeling full. Thankfully, the rocks had known that she did not like strawberry jam and had opted for Thunder and Lightening instead of regular Cornish Tea ("We are particular to it, dear, but today we will have honey. We are so glad to see you again. Have another split.")

Er, was she being grateful that her newest absurd dream had respected her preferences towards jam, or absence thereof? (Chocolate cream being a sacrilege. But, oh, chocolate and clotted cream!)

...was it that time of the month?

...had anyone said anything about flying?

**O**

**O**

**O**

Some things never change. Snape, for example, is simply being himself, Harry decides warily as he counts frog's eyes for his potion. Maybe more so than before. Neville just melted another cauldron. He has been send to the infirmary, accompanied by Hermione, who of course has already finished her perfect potion. Harry smiles to himself; he thinks that he and Ron didn't do too shabbily, either.

Remus made him revise potions over summer. They have brewed only five potions together, but they took their sweet time with each of them. Remus chose the potions for opportunities to demonstrate techniques and explain basic concepts that Harry hadn't been sufficiently aware of. He is adamant that Harry has inherited his mother's talent in potions, and will see that if only he would concentrate on what he was doing instead of what Snape was saying. He has advised him to prepare ahead for lessons and take notes on every step of the preparation and brewing of the potions, so as to be able to identify any mistakes he made.

Harry hopes that Remus didn't invent Lily's affinity for potions just to encourage him to work harder in his least favourite subject. He wants his picture of his parents to be true. He agrees with Remus however that three years are enough to get over the potions professor and his aggressive childishness and start concentrating on the subject itself.

Sirius talked to him about Snape. Specifically, his own very bad history with Snape. The talk had been long and bad, but Remus and Sirius insisted that Snape has no excuse for singling Harry out the way he is wont to do. Nor, really, to blatantly play favourites as Snape (infamously) does.

Harry was angry to learn that his father and godfather might have been bullies. Remus insisted that it had not been that simple, but Harry was more than inclined to identify with the bullied boy from an unhappy home (Sirius and Remus had learned that detail about Snape's early life from Lily). The boy being Snape had led to Harry tying himself into an unhappy knot. His guardian's pointing out that he, Harry, hadn't responded to his unhappy home life by acquiring a large arsenal of offensive and even Dark spells and using them liberally did not sway Harry, who thinks that he simply didn't have the chance to do so.

You are not giving yourself enough credit, Sirius had said. Harry had not been convinced. Snape convinced Harry. Just now. Snape had singled Neville out – again – and now Neville was in the infirmary. Again. And speaking of accidents: "Ron, no!" He snatches the cup with frog's eyes out of Ron's hands who was about to tilt its contents into their cauldron.

"What? We are supposed to add them now," complains Ron.

"We are supposed to add them after the potion turns jade green. Does this look jade green to you?"

Both of them look at the spinach-coloured mass in their cauldron.

"Dunno. What is jade?"

"A light green stone. Ron, I told you that I would add the eyes and that you should stir. Stir it, please. I need to count the eyes again."

"But Harry! We have to add the eyes or we won't finish in time!"

"Damn it Ron, stir the the potion if you want us to finish in time! Here, I'll do it if you do not want to, just count thirteen eyes for me." Impatiently, he takes the ladle from Ron. Ron makes some sort of noise but counts the number of eyes they need. After a moment the potion's colour lightens. Harry adds the eyes and stirrs on. The potion turns black, then a light buttery yellow. The instruction says that it has to turn a pure creamy white, but it also says that he's to stop stirring after it lightened, so Harry stopps.

"Damn," he muttered. This was an easy potion. No careful cutting / shredding / dicing required, not even particular attention to a precise temperature. One simply shreds the stuff, mixes, boils and stirs. It should have been a piece of cake. Harry i_s_ displeased with himself. Then he remembers to take notes. Of course, he did not brewed this all by himself: "Ron? Did you count how many times you stirred?"

"No."

"Did you stir clockwise or counter-clockwise?"

"Er. Clockwise, I think."

"Ok. Well, never mind. It looks good enough. Bottle a sample, please, I need to write this down."

"What do you need to write, Potter," a very familiar sneer is heard from behind them. Harry and Ron freeze. Snape continues: "Are you writing love-letters during class?"

Good grief, Harry thinks. Couldn't he put a more ridiculous question? If it weren't for that voice and for the knowledge what Snape could do out of a pure whim, his whole demeanour would be ludicrous: "No, sir," he answers blandly. "I am taking notes."

"Why would you need notes, Potter. You have a book with precise instructions, or have you lost it?"

"No, sir. Here it is sir. I was advised to take notes of what I did so that I would be able to find out what mistakes I made while brewing. Here are my notes, sir."

"I don't need your notes, foolish boy. I can tell with one single glance that you changed direction while stirring."

Interesting, Harry thinks. Did Snape warn them in advance of that possible mistake? Harry doubts it, but he also doubts that he himself remembered every word. He'll have to concentrate better.

"Maybe you should concentrate on the instructions in your book and simply avoid making mistakes," Snape echoes Harry's thoughts in his trademark hiss. Then he vanishes their potion. Harry feels a surge of very familiar rage. But rage is wrong. Remus was right about that.

"Well, Potter? What have you to say for yourself?"

What could he reply to that? Snape is trying to provoke him. Something neutral, then: "I have a question, sir. Does the actual direction of stirring make a difference to the result or is it only not changing the direction that matters?"

"I believe I just said that." Snape vanishes the parchment with the notes, too. "Pay attention, next time," he snaps.

He goes on to demolish another two pairs. Then the lesson is over.

Ron is furious: "That sl- Ouch! Why did you- Ouch!"

"We'll loose points, too," Harry hisses. "Leave it, Ron. Get your stuff together. Come on, it's lunch time and I am starving."

Ron makes angry noises but he collects his stuff and they leave, Snape's glare following them all the way to the door.

Harry waits until they were out of the dungeons: "Really, Ron, you know him! He was just waiting to deduct fifty points and give us a couple of detentions on top."

"Yes, but still! That foul git, there was nothing wrong with our potion! And why were you taking notes like that? You saw where it got us!"

"I thought there was nothing wrong with our potion," Harry says through gritted teeth. He loves Ron like a brother, but does he have to whine like a toddler?

"Yeah, well, Snape said it was worthless," Ron defends himself now.

"It was nearly perfect and that bugged Snape. Don't worry," Harry continues, "we'll get the next one right, and every one after it, too. He'll get used to the shock. Now come on before the food is all gone."

Ron however stays where he is and stares after Harry. It was only a few moments later that he run after him: "Mate, this is Hogwarts. There's no such thing as not enough food here."

Harry grinns despite his admittedly rotten temper: "Well, come along, then, I want the champion's portion."

"The what," Ron asks incredulously.

Harry laughs: "Irish mythology, Ron. I'll tell you if you hurry."

"Right. But, just so you know, you have become really weird. You are turning into Hermione, you are."

Harry grins to himself. Maybe he should tell Ron the story of Mac Da Thós pig, flying heads and all. If – against all expectations – there is not enough food left when they arrived he will, just to make sure that Ron is too sick for his own . Weird, Ron had said? He'll show him 'weird'.

It does not come to that. The food is plenty and the pudding includes treacle tart. Harry is pacified. Hermione, back from the infirmary, sympathises with them over the loss of their potion, points out that at least they identified their mistake and suggests using a SafeNote Quill that can repeat the last two two thousand words it has written at any given moment.

_0.._

_0_

_..0_

"I'm telling you, he's turning into you," Ron insists between bites. "He is taking notes all the time!"

"I fail to see how taking notes would be bad, Ronald," Hermione says, her voice flowing through him like a careless ghost. A month into the school year Hermione has lost little of her tan and none of her newly found sharpness. She has always been beating up people with her intellect, but these days she means to do it. In less words and more meaningful looks. This is Hogwarts, after all. She is learning from the best.

Ron is very perplexed. Harry is amused, and also aware of the looks Hermione is getting. Hell, he's aware of the looks he himself is getting. Professor McGonagall has taken to looking from him to Hermione and back, as if mentally comparing their answers and being surprised about the result. Hermione, with her nearly perfect knowledge of the syllabus of the last three years still knows more and finishes her homework faster than he does. But studying ahead works very well for Harry. He feels confident that he will have caught up with her by the end of the year, and that's with two totally new subjects. Harry's taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.

McGonagall put him with his own classmates in their second year of these subjects, citing conflicting schedules with the third years, but the professors have offered help, and so have Hermione, Susan Bones and Padma Patil. Susan, Harry has found, appears to be thinking much like he does. In Arithmancy and Runes, at any rate. He likes her notes best.

Though if truth were told he is taking to his two new subjects like a duck to sauce à l'orange.

Harry had been quite good at maths before he had come to Hogwarts, and he enjoyed returning to it during last summer. Arithmancy, he feels, has something that reminds him of maths, but on a much simpler scale. Pattern recognition instead of learning and applying a different logic.

Ancient Runes is even simpler. Last year's Runes lessons were, in terms of language acquisition, alphabets and basic vocabulary. Harry's muggle book on runic magic is been amazing. The so-called meditation on runes (visualising, humming, simulating the form with your body) helped him to memorise the forms and names, the free association exercise has taken care of meanings and variations. The background information from the history books helped, too. Mythology, stories, anecdotes and the facts from his school books are morphing into an animated and, more important, annotated map from which he could retrieve information in the blink of an eye. Harry is pleased and his professors, while perplexed, are also pleased. All but one.

**O**

**O**

**O**

Snape will not to be banished with patience, gritted teeth and a neat, note-retaining quill.

The second lesson was been purely theoretical. Harry did well in that one. The lesson after that Snape announces that he'd had enough with pairs with established task sharing and rearranged them ("You may be determined to leave this classroom as stupid as you were when you entered but I do not give lessons in cutting-or-stirring"). Harry now has to work with Crabbe, Hermione with Goyle. Incidentally leaving Ron and Neville at each other's mercy. The one good part is that Snape was no longer interested in cheating them out of their top grades.

The bad part was that two days later various Slytherins are still snickering whenever they meet them, asking how they liked being put in their proper places, for once. And more in the same vein. The part that really hurts his pride was that the main benefactors do not even have enough brain cells to articulate their 'triumph'.

The news spread instantly; the Gryffindors are enraged. This means war. Goyle keeps falling over his own feet while sitting quietly on a bench while Crabbe develops an acute allergy to plain water.

Fred and George are not amused.

"Amateurs, the lot of them," says Fred.

"You'd think we haven't been teaching them for four years," agrees George.

"Pomfrey neutralised both with one spell," an irritated Fred tells Hermione.

"One single spell." Hermione is impressed. The ailments had looked different enough.

"They used banal hexes instead of proper spells with solidifying incantations," George explaines. "All it took was a 'finite'."

The twins are charms prodigies?

"And let's not forget the poor choice of target," adds Lee, who has been assigned detention with Filch. Lee said that it had been a matter of right and wrong place, namely too close to a random Slytherin thirsting for revenge, but four days into the Potions Wars there was no right place. Anywhere.

"Please! What kind of fool pranks a barely sentient boulder," George asks now.

"Makes me want to teach my own house," says Fred. "And this is not the time for inner conflicts."

The twins briefly look at each other, as if considering being contrarian for the sake of it.

"Is it the time to ask for help with flying," Hermione asks them rather timidly.

Three people exclaim "what?" in perfect unison.

"I, well, I thought that it might be worth to try again. I haven't sat on a broom since first year, and I was thinking that it's a useful skill, after all, and, well, my father said that I shouldn't experience vertigo if I am sitting on something that isn't connected to the ground, and he's a pretty good flyer actuallysoIthoughtI'dtryagain. Er..."

"A moment, if you will, fair maiden," says George, just to make her blush violently.

"Your father is a flyer?" Fred asks with a leer. Thank goodness, it was about the plane. Because she's just experienced a flashback.

"He used to fly a glider until I was born and my mother forbade it," Hermione explains. "A glider is a very light, very silent sort of plane for one or two persons. It has to be pulled up by a bigger plane but then it glides like a bird." Her father loved flying until her mother, pregnant, hormonal and nervous, put an end to it.

"Right. A small plane that flies without being able to fly. But why do you want to fly? You are two years from an apparation licence."

The foundation of the castle insists that she should, but she's not saying that. She would also like to fly to Glasgow and try to find clotted cream and chocolate, somewhere, because there was none to be found in Hogsmeade. And she's not confessing that, either.

"Er...exercise? I am getting bored with the bike in my dorm." That, at least, is true. Propping a book against the 'handlebar' does not make the exercise more interesting.

"You have an enchanted bike in your dorm? One like Sirius Black had? Dad's told us all about it," Fred says excitedly.

"A bicycle, not a bike. And it doesn't move, one just pedals. But its not enchanted, it is build this way."

"A bike with pedals," George repeated for confirmation. He has seen bikes and he found them interesting. The twins have inherited some of Mr Weasley's interests. Also, he was not allowed to apparate yet and the use of brooms was restricted. Also, he appreciated how some people looked on bikes.

"Exactly."

"But it doesn't move," says Fred.

"I have one that moves, too. It is still in my trunk. If you want to try." What is it with wizards and muggle stuff? They hate it or they are absolutely fascinated by it.

The twins look at each other and at Lee. They have air of cats left alone in a yarn factory. Go for the blue silk or go for the red wool? Choices, choices.

"We would be delighted to assist," Fred finally declares.

"But you will shows us both your bikes," adds George.

"And you will tell us why you did not ask Harry and Ron," says Lee, who is having a moment of true communion.

"I did, but Ron is mad at me and Harry is busy taking notes."

"Ronniekins is mad at you? Again? What did you do this time?"

Hermione sighs a deep, long-suffering sigh: "Apparently I am turning Harry into a girl."

**…**

**…**

**…**

Crabbe and Goyle are still receiving 'outstandings' in Potions, Snape is still visibly enjoying every single minute with his fourth year students and Harry is getting really close to enlightenment through suffering. He had opted to regard the experience as an exercise in staying calm, and refrained from reacting to taunts between classes. So far. It does not make him happy but it – and his reflexes – keep him out of trouble. Something that Ron, with far worse impulse control, is not interested in. Ron is taking it unto himself to get into enough fights for all three of them: "I can't believe you let them say such things to you! Mione's a girl, but you Harry! Did you hear what Bole-"

"I heard Bole, Ron. He said 'curse me, curse me, Professor Snape is waiting around the corner'," Harry says disgustedly. "Now, come on or we will be late for Transfiguration."

"What is wrong with you, Harry? Since when do you accept every insult someone throws at you? What they say is just plain wrong! You can't let people get away with that!"

Harry grabs Ron's sleeve and pulled him away: "Ron, we've been late to Transfiguration twice in a row now. I do not have time for detention and you have two already. Come on!"

What those guys said does not interest Harry. They are not interesting in themselves, they can go on throw insults or quote Shakespeare all day, for all Harry cares: "Sticks and stones, Ron. Wands, in our case. I will not help them get their dirty work done just because they ask nicely."

**.O.**

"I think he feels we let down, but I like life without detentions," Harry confesses one evening in the library. "And really, what is it with this insistence to get us both into trouble? He's becoming as nervous as Professor Moody, and he has none of the war experience to account for it."

Professor Moody is indeed teaching them curses. The timing is bad but that can't be helped. Curses are part of DADA syllabus and Hogwarts students are fighting all the time over something or the other. And that, in turn that does not alter the fact that previously most of them had had but a scattered knowledge of curses, whereas now instead of taking cover people are throwing back the spells they just practised in the last DADA lesson.

"Ron's being difficult, all right," Hermione agrees tiredly. "I'm afraid that I am not as patient as I should be. Frankly, I want to kill him every time he asks me for help with his homework. I don't know why, I used to help him all the time. Now he only needs to start saying 'Mione' and I want to scream at him. Susan says it is pent up tension, but not why I should be angry at Ron. I mean, it's not as if he wanted me to write his homework for him."

Actually, Susan had an answer to that, too. That answer was: "You are more intelligent than that, Hermione."

Hermione had looked at the trigonological tranformation she and Susan had been calculating for Arithmancy. She likes working with Susan and she's glad that she can talk to her. Susan is quiet, funny and insightful. But if she, Hermione, was really as clever as Susan says she is then she would have known what to do about Potions, she thinks miserably. Gritting your teeth couldn't be the only answer.

And Ron is not even the biggest problem. Ron-the-person is a mere irritation, someone who means well and gets it wrong. The problem, as far as Hermione is concerned, is the way her own anger is eating away at herself.

"I spend the lessons imagining ways to deal with Snape," she tells Susan one day. "And by dealing I mean ways to kill him, slowly and painfully. I am coming up with things that would startle your aunt, and I do not want that! I don't believe in violence, yet I keep imagining how to torture my professor to death!"

"I doubt that you could startle Auntie," Susan says matter-of-factly. "And imagination is not the same as action. People imagine being Quidditch stars or Minister of Magic or hexing everyone they know all the time, and most of them never lift a finger to do any of this."

"Yes, but people who are Quidditch stars or poisoned their families did imagine doing it," wails Hermione, who knows that Sue is right but can't cope with the levels of nastiness her imagination is attaining. It is getting worse by the hour! What if any of this spills out into the real world?

"Hermione, this is ridiculous! Snape is unfair, you are angry, that's all it is, and it's completely natural! Thoughts can't harm Snape, or he would have dropped dead before his first Christmas as a professor!"

"But-"

"Hermione, what is your problem? Your real problem?"

The aggressive fantasies are the real problem, Hermione is sure of that. The other real problem is the way Professor McGonagall is not reacting. Students who copied or cheated were always punished severely. Crabbe and Goyle are blatantly stealing the credit for her and Harry's work. That's the reason the Slytherins are cheering, after all. Two low-borns servicing the pure-bloods. Surely that's right just because another professor was condoning it?

Susan is not unsympathetic. She wants to help.

Harry has decided against writing Sirius and asking him for advice. Not with Snape in the picture. Hermione has tried writing to her parents and never managed to finish the letter. Susan has written to her aunt and received a very sympathetic, very detailed explanation about the importance of letting her friends find the solution to this particular problem by themselves.

"How are your flying lessons with the terrible twins," she seeks to distract her friend now.

"Terrible," Hermione sighs, "but that's my fault, not theirs. My dad was right, it's not vertigo. I am afraid of being in the air, which is a different thing entirely."

"But you have two people flying on both sides of you." Both of whom will be glad to catch you. "Doesn't that make you feel safer?"

"A little," Hermione conceds. "But I am so afraid to begin with that a little less is not much, and it's not happening fast, either."

"But the twins are patient?"

Of course they are.

The twins are very patient. They are missing their Quidditch practice, they say, and this way Madam Hooch at least allows them to use the school brooms. Also, they like Hermione's street bike. They say.

**.O.**

**..O..**

One day a curse hits Harry, causing the back of his head to erupt in boils. Susan had been coming over to talk to him and sees it all. A hex from her wand freezes the culprit. Susan then drags both boys to Professor Sprout and demands that her Head of House performs a particular spell on the offender's wand. Professor Sprout is happy to comply and Madam Pomfrey is been happy to confirm that the boils on Harry's head have been caused by this particular curse. Susan grins. Harry is astonished. So, there is a true solution within the rules, then?

There is, and when it finally dawns on Hermione a week later they are both embarrassed to admit they had not seen it before.

"Miss Granger! What is this mess?" Snape snaps at the end of the next lesson. She was supposed to brew with Goyle today, but the goo in the cauldron is clearly not the work of Hermione Granger.

"I don't know, sir," Hermione replies calmly.

"Where is your potion? Why are there unused ingredients on your table?"

"Ask Goyle, sir. He had difficulties dicing the liver so I told him that I would prepare the ingredients so that he could mix them according to instructions."

Hermione simply refused to perform, and accepted the bad mark that that curtails. Well, not simply. Making the decision gave her nightmares, real nightmares. Then again, so does flying. And not reacting to Snape's little game leads to nightmares too, only nightmares during which she's awake and for which she feels directly responsible. She does not want to daydream about extracting Snape's bones from his still twitching body. She can now accept disagreeing with Snape; he may be one of her professors, but he is an abysmal teacher and an awful human being. She does not have to respect, let alone like him.

If only failing at a test hadn't been her boggart. She's at Hogwarts in order to learn magic. She's supposed to be a witch. Failing at a test despite hard work meant failing to belong.

Consciously refusing to perform however is not the same as failing. Thinking that wanting to belong may be overrated... is that logic? It ties in with it, but what is it, really? (It is her current age. Hermione Granger might be the one teenager in the world who had to think about it before agreeing to a spot of teenage rebellion. Or who had to be kicked into it by loving parents.)

Logic or not, it felt sound. Worth trying, even. Snape's tightly pressed lips and flaring beak of a nose frighten her – displeased professor! – yet hint that she may have been right. Snape cannot order her to do all the work herself. Not in so many words. And Snape didn't. He had relied on her fears and her not seeing that simple fact before.

It takes another two lessons of non-performance by several pupils until Snape throws up his hands and tells them to pair up as they pleas.

Soon afterwards the Potions Wars come to an end.

It's time. October 31. is approaching. Hogwarts cannot afford displays of mediocre duelling in front of the guests from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Says Professor McGonagall, causing many of her pupils to disagree. Most of it was hit-and-hide but there had also been several instances of very sophisticated duelling. Says Professor Moody, and proceeds to demonstrate the Unforgivables. It's a very good show, a flashy yet cautionary finale after two months of corridor fighting.

Affirmation is a wonderful thing.

**...οοο...**


	8. Interlude: Letter home

(you-know-what)

* * *

><p><strong>Interlude<strong>

**or**

**Afterthoughts on Chapter 4  
><strong>

_Dear Sirius, dear Remus, _

_How are you? I was busy dealing with problems that I couldn't avoid, hence the lack of letters. I'd give you all the gory details but Susan Bones tells me that "you are aware of current events at Hogwarts". It's all right, I do not mind your receiving detailed reports on my life here by your numerous spies. Obviously, I have uncovered one of them, already. I am finishing my plan for a deadly tickling attack on Susan as I write this. I have the place, the time and the invisibility cloak. (Just kidding.)_

_I presume you haven't yet heard that we won the Potions Wars as that event took place only today. _

_We kind of won, unless Snape won. I can't shake the feeling that I shouldn't be too sure when it comes to his Sliminess. Do your spies happen to report to Hermione's parents as well? Hermione is pretty worried about them. I think she misses them even worse than usual.  
><em>

_Yeah, I know, I told you that it's your (not you, Remus) and dad's fault how he turned out. Frankly, I lost it and I want to apologise for that. The problem was that I felt as if I'd found the person responsible for the special treatment I get in Potions, and, yeah, I lost it. I am sorry. Frankly, after the last month that sounds like a really bad joke. How about I turn into a middle-aged git and start blaming that on the two school years with Draco Malfoy? (You've heard about his mysterious disappearance, right? Ron reckons he went to Durmstrang and got killed in his first duel.) There is also the matter of intending to harm when performing Dark spells, which I am prepared to accept that he did rather frequently as a pupil. Susan pointed that out, and after Mad-Eye's very detailed lessons on curses I see what she means. _

_We had quite an interesting discussion today, Hermione and I. The question was, was our little tactic towards Snape compliant to school rules or not? I say it was, because if we'd overstepped even by a hair's breath Snape would have had our hides. She says it wasn't, because the "underlying rules of school clearly state that students are to perform to the best of their current abilities and also to work on improving themselves." Padma Patil says we are_ applying unrelated standards while_ considering divergent parameters. Yeah, Ravenclaw. Yes, that's three girls in one letter. No, they are not icky. Shut up, Padfoot.  
><em>

_ Anyway. The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive tomorrow. I am a little curious as we don't get new pupils normally (other than the firsties). I assume they will be staying in the castle, of course, and that should be interesting. Of course, everyone who is over seventeen is going to apply for Hogwarts champion and half of the idiots who aren't will try as well. Which part of "experienced" and "dangerous" is it that they don't understand? _

_Ron is right, I am turning into Hermione._

_I expect I will write again soon with more exciting news. Say hello to Tonks for me, Sirius. Tell Kreacher that his mincemeat pie beats the pies of the Hogwarts elves hands down. Speaking of pastry, Hermione is muttering 'no Thunder and Lightening' every time we eat. Does Kreacher know what that is and can he make some? I do hope its something she wants for pudding and not Fred and George Weasley. Wow, that came out really wrong. I am off to scrub my brain._

_Love,_

_Harry_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

This is a rambling letter written by a teenager, not an in-depth character analysis of Severus Snape. There would be a little more to say about Snape, even if we all could agree on one version of him.


	9. An ancient magical artefact I

Her universe / characters / rights. My mess. And since I do not expect to switch bodies any time soon this is the last time I'll be saying that.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 5<strong>, **wherein liberating moves occur**_

* * *

><p>Much later Hermione will think that there should have been a warning. But the truth is that she had been tense from the beginning. Never having been one to pay real attention to herself she simply never noticed the state of her own nerves.<p>

**O**

At the beginning of it all, the students and Professors of Hogwarts are assembled outside the castle, watching with interest as the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive. The flying coach that looks like a huge piece of pastry and the spectral ship that puts the flying Dutchman to shame. Several particularly clever students ask if the Hogwarts lake isn't land bound. Hermione does't roll her eyes. Nor does she point out that the ship is nothing like a submarine, yet it obviously did not travel on the surface of the water.

The guest students' entrance is impressive enough: The Durmstrang contingent is boys only (which is strange, because Durmstrang isn't) and the Hogwarts students see only one of them. Viktor Krum, the tragic hero of the last World Cup. _So this is what world class Quidditch players look like_, Hermione thinks wryly. The Beauxbatons contingent is mixed. The students show extreme deference to their Hagrid-sized – but rather more attractive – headmistress and end sitting with Ravenclaw. The Durmstrang students join Slytherin. The Bauxbatons students seem to be cold, the Durmstrang students on the other hand are exceedingly comfortable. They seem either impressed or amused with the cutlery. _Amused_, Hermione decides. Admittedly, gold plates and goblets are ostentatious. True, the Great Hall is very medieval, and gold fits perfectly into that, but still... Then something more interesting than the importance of being impressive (while still being British) catches her attention: the student two seats left of Krum is neither looking at the cutlery nor joking. Which is interesting. Hermione eyes him more closely. _Tall, very wiry, white blond / wait a moment / but he had only been away for a year!_

"Malfoy," she whispers.

"What? Where," asks Ron who is sitting next to her (where she can't see him chew; she has seen to that).

_Tell him or make him look for himself? _"Look closely at the Durmstrang students. Not at Krum. Tell me what you see."

Ron, to give him credit, says 'Huh?' but looks. Even more impressively, when he sees what she has seen, he does not scream for the whole Great Hall to hear. He, too, barely utters a soft: "Merlin!"

Harry has discovered Draco all by himself: "I am curious," he whispers from his seat at Ron's other side. "Look at our own students. Do you think they have noticed yet?"

Obediently Hermione starts her scrutiny with Gryffindor. Fred catches her eye. Being Fred, he simply looks to where Ron and Harry are looking. _That's interesting_, Hermione thinks. _Note to self: learn to control your gaze._ Did Fred just smirk? _Further note to self: re-investigate methods of mind-reading. Afterthought: learn to control your face._

She then scrutinises Hufflepuff. Susan is frowning. Most Puffs, are looking back and forth; comparing Krum and Cedric, absurd as that is? Raveclaw on the other hand is too taken with their new company to look elsewhere. And Slytherin is completely silent. Pity, she should have looked their way first. Hermione then turns to the High Table where the professors are eating and entertaining their own guests. Wait, Hagrid isn't. He isn't eating, either. He is ...smiling? Languishing?

_Oh dear, Hagrid is smitten._

Professor McGonagall is eating, but in complete silence, without so much as a glance at her neighbours. She's looking feral. Somewhere in the room there is a mouse, and McGonagall dearly wants to turn into a cat and eat it. But who is the mouse? Next to the displeased professor, Ludo Bagman looks every inch the former professional Beater. Hermione hopes that he had never had a worthwhile brain to begin with. Hermione looks back at Susan, and catches her catching Harry's eye and nodding towards Draco. Now, that's really interesting. What one could find out by observing people... if only she were able to do several things at once, like observing and eating.

"Excuse me, will you be wanting the bouillabaisse," asks a clear voice with a strong French accent. Hermione turns her attention back to her own table_. _She enjoys bouillabaisse and hadn't noticed that there was any to be had. She's too late anyway, Ron is already pushing the tureen away and out of reach. Is he looking look really strange? He certainly doesn't hear Hermione's protest over relinquishing the soup._. _

"Did you want any of this," the blond young woman asks politely._ And is she really spectacularly beautiful? Can real people be that beautiful__?_

Hermione is so not ladling soup with half the table (half the Great Hall, actually) looking at ...the stunning blond. But if Hermione has a soup accident they will notice her all right: "No, it's all right. Please, take it."

"If you are sure." The girl takes the tureen away.

"Hermione, what was that," Harry asks.

"Fish soup," Hermione says slowly. "Who was that? Have you any idea?"

"A veela," Ron mutters.

_Ah yes. The Bulgarian cheerleaders_: "I see. How fascinating."

"Very," Ron mumbles.

She considers shaking him to help him back to his senses and decides against it; she has already missed one interesting dish and wants to see if there are others on the table. Apparently the kitchens are trying to make the guests feel welcome.

"The elves must have been trying to make them feel at home," another student echoes her thoughts. "Pity they don't do that more often. Some of us would not mind a little deviation from the olde englishe fare we get here."

"Elves?" asks Hermione. Her thoughts turn to Harry's stories about Dobby and Kreacher. "Do you mean house-elves?"

"Of course." That's George, always eager to enlighten. "Hogwarts has over a hundred of them working here. Mum always says that she would love to have one at the Burrow, but they are really quite attached to this place." From this Hermione infers that the twins, dutiful sons that they are, have at least considered the mechanics of elf relocation.

Meanwhile, Ginny is snickering. Apparently, Ron is still dazed. So are several other students. Then again, some show no reaction at all. She'll really have to find a way of recording phenomena in situ if she wants to study them later. Ah, yes, Pensieves. But Pensieves only show her own memory of an event, don't they? Besides being rare and expensive. _New food and self knowledge in one day,_ Hermione thinks. Maybe this tournament would turn out to be interesting, after all. Now, what was that over there? Sauerkraut? Er...

**O**

The elves have served pudding when she finally hears the first students whisper Draco's name. A return in triumph it isn't; then again... Hermione wonders about the politics behind sitting two seats away from the one person guaranteed to capture everybody's attention. Why would Draco Malfoy wish to remain unnoticed (for as long as possible)?

Small details are taking a lot of her attention, these days. It's all Harry's fault. He should not have given her books on formal logic that make her want to empty out her brain's contents and _reorganise everything._ But if there's one thing the Potions Wars have shown her, it's that there are still many things, many of them right in front of her nose, that she, big brain notwithstanding, simply doesn't see. That a seasoned player can still easily distract her.

_And McGonagall is looking like a cat who has been told to abdicate hunting. She looked like that all through the Potions Wars. A distraction? _Hermione feels that an important insight is about to happen, but the feeling passes, much like the need to sneeze sometime just passes, and leaves you with a nose that itches like hell. Needless to say, Hermione hates that feeling. It is the very thing that she. Works. So. Hard. To overcome. That feeling of having suddenly understood something, that would make her so happy, that would always then turn out to be – faulty. Incorrect. Ridiculous. So unlike the results of proper research.

_Are we referring to the time when we did not know that magic existed? Just saying. Because now that we have been let in to the secret we could stop fearing that we have to back every word we say with two books and four peer-reviewed essays, don't we think?_

Is she getting mad?

_Suppressing our own perception hath made us mad (How do we say 'us' in archaic, by the way?). But we have been officially sane four over three years. You know, when you got that letter? Sorry: when *we* got that letter. ...you did not realise that you must have been obliviated as a child? Really?_

The noise of the Great Hall simply fades into murmur as Hermione's mind races to catch up with all her thoughts at once. Like the statistical probability of magical accidents that would require MoM intervention. Children are not being kept at home all the time, after all, and children often get very excited. Harry, for example, distinctly remembered people attributing his accidental magic to- No, his relatives had known that it was him.

_And all that, true as it was, was another distraction._

Was it? Where had she been, then? Ah: The Potions Wars. Which had taken up so much of her – and Harry's – attention, had frustrated her to the unbelievable extend of causing her nightmares and force everything else out of her mind._ Even truly dramatic events, like the one in Hermione's home the night before she had left for Hogwarts. Like everything that had implied; implications which had not been discussed after that first evening in the library._

_Ah_, says a voice that she knew well. It's the voice with which she admonishes herself after noticing an error. It sounds a little like herself, a little like her mother and increasingly like Professor Snape. ...turning into Malfoy and appearing at Hermione's home was something Snape might do, she suddenly thinks. For ...for the sheer pleasure of frightening and confusing. It's something a really mean sort of prankster would do. Could it be that Snape is just that?

Time to consult an expert or two.

"Fred, George? Are we flying today or will you be busy?"

"Nah, we can worship the ground Krum walks on later."

"When he has actually graced it with his flat feet."

"Premature worship isn't welcome."

"There are potions against it."

Hermione does not get the joke until Lavender and Parvati start giggling furiously.

**O**

"Harry? Do you think that Ron will snap out of it any time soon," she addresses her friend as they leave the table.

Harry bursts into laughter: "Between the French girl and Krum? Ron is going to die of something that I shouldn't even think, let alone say in the presence of a lady. Sorry, Hermione." Away he walks, still laughing.

"Flabbergasting, isn't it?"

"Positively mind-boggling."

"Our little Harrykins is discovering _le sarcasme_." And Fred had accidentally gotten the French word right, Hermione noted. Not the accent, though. Maybe she should suggest an exchange with the veela?

"Now, we think we have a broom and many feet up in the air to be."

"If you will honour us with your presence."

"And you will."

The terrible twins, her very esteemed flight instructors guide her gently towards the pitch.

**O**

"So," says George, about an hour and too many feet in altitude later. "I believe you wanted to ask us something."

_I do. If I can talk while trying to navigate this thing,_ Hermione thinks grimly.

George, of course sounds as comfortable as a person sitting on his favourite chair in front of a nice fire.

"It must be interesting, if you can't say it on the ground," Fred comments, lightly as if commenting today's moderately interesting news.

"Am I that obvious," she asks through gritted teeth, trying to not feel all that cold air around her. Underneath her feet._  
><em>

"Is a cat trailing feathers obvious?"

Hermione does what normal people do when ambushed by Zen philosophy: she blows a fuse. An instant later _she is diving._

"Ahhh!"

"Hermione!"

The broom comes to a sudden halt. Hermione pants with the exertion of the fright. _Or the rush._ The twins fall to both sides of her. In her irritation Hermione had pushed the handle of her broom down, pushed it hard enough to make the broom perform an inverted loop.

"What the hell, Hermione?"

"Are you all right?"

Hermione shakes her head: "No. I mean yes, I am all right. It's just the fright."

"I'll say. What the hell were you thinking?"

"You don't think that I was thinking, do you? I just did something and this simply happened."

"Right," George snaps. "The problem, young sparrow, is that your 'something' is impossible. You realise that, don't you?"

"Er... no? How would I?"

Fred sighs in exasperation: "Hermione, that was an inverted loop. Brooms. Don't. Do. That."

She still does not understand: "What about brooms for aerobatics?"

"Aero-what," the twins ask in unison.

_Wizards!_ "Oh, you know, doing nearly impossible and extremely dangerous tricks in the air. Muggles do that in planes."

"Really? Well, we don't."

Hermione takes a deep breath. She has just performed an impossibly dangerous trick on a broom. She'd have been furious if she had seen one of her friends do that, and her friends are talented fliers, prodigies even. So yes: Fred and George have every right to be furious: "Don't bite my head off. I was irritated and pushed the broom too hard down. I was not thinking, and if I had been I would never have expected this to happen."

"You still don't understand. If pushing the broom downwards had been all you did, you would simply have crashed. This is an old battered school broom, Hermione. And that was a inverted manoeuvre. Which is impossible."

It is? _Huh. Magic will respect physics at the most inopportune moments._

"Accidental magic may have been involved," she muses. "The bursts that I remember from my childhood felt the way I feel now."

Fred swerves suddenly, coming to hover opposite her: "You really did not do that on purpose?"

Hermione sighs: "Fred, if inverted maneuvres are impossible, then how would the least talented flyer on earth perform one?"

"The least talented flyer and the most fearsome with of her age. By the way, you are hovering just fine, now," George observes dryly.

_Oh._ She is hovering. The ground is still along way off, but that no longer bothers her ...she is hovering!

**O**

Later, on the ground, on the way back to the castle she manages to ask them what she had wanted to say before her broom had diverted her, namely if they would say that Snape is a prankster. In his own dark and unfair way.

"Pranksters are unfair, Hermione. They mean to challenge, not to amuse."

"But people are amused by pranks," she disagrees. "The people that are not targeted are amused, and more often than not, your targets laugh as well." _Or you two would been lynched by our co-students long ago,_ she does not add.

"But that's not being good, that's just avoiding aggression. Which is important, but not our main object. If we wanted to avoid aggression above all things, we would not prank people in the first place."

"Then you prank them to make them laugh about themselves," she suggests, more curious than she would have imagined: why do people prank people, anyway. She never felt the urge to do it herself.

George grins: "You make us sound nice. Mostly we prank because we can."

"Because it gives us the opportunity to use things that everyone thinks they know in unexpected and interesting ways. Because life is a little bit grey at times, and no-one bothers to make our lives interesting for us."

"Yeah, they rarely bother to prank us back, the bores. You'd think they do us the courtesy."

Hermione ponders that: "But you are nice."

Fred laughs

"Don't tell people," George begs mockingly.

_I don't understand them,_ Hermione decides._ At all._ Something is telling her that they like it that way. But yes, they do think that Snape is being the way he is because he enjoys disturbing people. And they should know.

They re-enter the castle in time to hear Professor Dumbledore repeat his warning against under age students trying to get into the tournament. _What a happy coincidence,_ Hermione thinks as she walks silently past the throng of students. The Durmstrang contingent are all there. She can even see Malfoy hanging around, whom she knows to be younger than herself. But so are many of the students who are watching Dumbledore do nothing more exciting than conjure chalk and make it draw a circle. Presumably he is doing much more than that, but, also presumably, Dumbledore finds a lot of magic very easy to perform. If people want to see him do something impressive they'll have to ask him to... she has no idea what would tax the supposedly greatest wizard of the age.

_Merlin knows._

...why is she using that silly expression anyway? Merlin, or Myrddin, or, as some people believe, Taliesin the Bard is supposed to have been human. Mostly human, but he died, which is a distictly mortal trait. And yet: Merlin this, Merlin that.

...another thought leaves her with her metaphorical nose itching. But this one is not to remain unfinshed:

"_There you are. Have some tea. We have treacle instead of honey today, will that be all right with you?"_

"_I love treacle, thank you," Hermione answers cheerfully. She's so glad the foundations had invited her back! They have Thunder and Lightening!_

"_Nonsense, dear, of course we'd invite you back. You are practically family, aren't you?"_

"_I am?"_

"_Well, of course you are. You are our first student in a whole minute! A minute in our time, not yours. Anyway. Tell us, how do you like flying?"_

"_Oh, that was such a wonderful suggestion," Hermione gushes. "It's so liberating!"_

"_Isn't it? We have to be honest, we expected you to prefer the griffins or the hippogriffs. But your way means you acquired nice company. Congratulations. We were getting worried about your self-isolating tendencies, you know. You must not tell them more about your trick than you have, however. We know that you like to explain things to your friends, but those three like you already, and it is the kind of news that should not travel. _

_Hermione nods seriously: "Our school as it is right now doesn't like unfiltered magic."_

"_No, they don't. But this is not our problem, for now. Our problem is that you want to keep people from tracking you and from invading your thoughts. And you want to do that without alerting everyone to the fact that _you_ have no problem with your will."_

"_It's all about will, isn't it? Our current magic is structured in such a way as to make it available without deep will."_

"_That's what we believe, and you as our student agree with us. Anyway. You can resolve part of your problem by avoiding what will-based manoeuvres they do. Specifically, avoid invoking Myrddin. That invocations signifies consent, and consent is the basis of being found, you know."_

"_Really?"_

"_Of course. You almost realised that today. Do not call Myrddin and you will make it so much harder for anyone who relies on filtered magic to track you. Once you let go, you will be able to hide effectively."_

_Hermione is unconvinced, but she will consider it. She notices that she is about to fall asleep again: "One last thing: Why do you have a lion's head?"_

"_The better to eat you up, dear."_

"_Aha," Hermione answers dryly. The lion headed figure laughs merrily. Hermione falls asleep._

**O**

Hermione reconsiders the newest dream. _Very straightforward, if not simple to accept_, she decides. Some details are easier to interpret than others of course. But the _rocks/prehistoric figurine/nice fuzzy granny_ talked about three, not two people being impressed by her stunt on the broom. She will think about that later. 'They' also maintained that she had performed the stunt on the broom on purpose. She will think about that later as well. Of course she can stop invoking Merlin. She made herself use that expression during first year because it had seemed like the sort of thing witches and wizards simply did.

**O**

It's a very grumpy Hermione who joins her friends for the Halloween feast after a day in the library.

'Later' turned into 'now' and thinking about all those things has made her head buzz in the most disquieting way. The search for mind-reading techniques has produced no results. She'll have to search the restricted section, but she needs a pass, and she does not want to ask for one, given the object of her interest and her misgivings about people having already used mind-magic on her. A year ago she would have asked Professor McGonagall. But the last summer has definitely left its mark on her. And now Halloween is upon them. Again. The day she was attacked by a troll, the day they went to that awful Death Day Feast and found the petrified Mrs Norris, the day they went to their first Hogsmeade visit without Harry. All these days are merging in her head into one big headache. She's not paranoid. Statistically speaking, Halloween is a bad day. She tries to eat something, and finds that she is feeling queasy.

Since everyone is waiting for the feast to be over it takes its bloody time.

Finally they are allowed to stand; the tables disappear. Naturally, they all move towards the Goblet of Fire. They can see into the chamber where it is standing on a short pillar. _Bloody holy grail_, Hermione thinks angrily. Dumbledore's Age Line has already proved its worth by repelling her flying instructors. Hermione looked after them as they left for the infirmary, howling with laughter about their long white beards. Had they wanted to participate or had they tried to enter because people expected them to? What if the Age Line had been less safe? But it _was_ Dumbledore's Age Line. If only she couldn't have named several ways to get a piece of paper with one's name into the Goblet without troubling the Line, and she is not the resident Bender of Rules.

"You are nervous," Harry says. She never noticed that he was here, but he is, looking at her with worry, and at the same time smiling that new smile of his. The one that is sadly completely wasted on her.

"Are you worried about me? I am safe this year. The tournament is only for students who are of age. They've got a ton of international contracts that say that there will be no exceptions."

The mention of the contracts almost helps for a moment. But she's not worried about a normal person, she's worried about Harry James Potter, the boy for whom the most dramatic of all exceptions has already been made.

"And what was the last time you were safe just because you were young," Hermione snaps now.

"You mean it," he observes

"I certainly do. I was just thinking that something idiotic will happen and that I will have to kill Trellawny for infecting me with her broadened mind."

"Hermione," Harry sighs. "Trellawny has nothing to do with this. She cannot turn people into seers or she would have turned herself into one years ago."

Hermione is not to be diverted from her foul mood and queasy stomach: "Oh, great, hit me with logic. Please! Just what I need now." She looks around: "Where are Ron and Susan?" Susan has been around a lot. Hermione is beginning to count on her presence.

"Susan is with the Puffs who are supporting Cedric. Ron and Ginny are somewhere there, too."

"Support Cedric? Can't he carry a bloody piece of paper alone?"

Harry eyes her critically. She's very pale, and while her worrying about him is always touching, her making herself sick is not something he'll allow: "Look, there's nothing to do here for us. Do you want to take a walk? We could go and fly. The twins mentioned that you would like to borrow the Firebolt. Have they gone crazy or have you discovered the joys of flying?"

"Her sort doesn't fly, scarhead. What's the matter, Granger? Is the mean magic frightening you?"

Of all the pests: "Mmmalfoy (the Merlin habit might take a day or two to break). What an unexpected pleasure," Hermione greets Harry's former rival coolly.

"Long time no see, cousin," Harry says pleasantly, as if Malfoy never did what he could to make his life hell. "Durmstrang is agreeing with you."

"We thought you had decided to leave us for more welcoming climates," Hermione continued as brusquely as before. (She has heard about 'good cop, bad cop' and thinks that casting Harry as the nice one should be enough to break Malfoy's brain.)

"We were a little worried about you, all friendless up there in the north. Nice scar, by the way. It misses your left eye in the most fetching way."

"Hermione, please. Don't flirt with my poor cousin," Harry admonishes her.

Hermione sees the faintest beginning of a sneer in Draco's face and looks over her shoulder. Lo and behold, there is her favourite Potions Professor, the words 'twenty points from Gryffindor for insulting our guests' on his curled lips.

She smiles sweetly and turns back to Harry: "Harry, we are obstructing a meeting between godfather and son. Let's give them some privacy."

"Sure. My regards to your parents, Draco."

"Do stay for the naming of the champions, Potter," Snape says silkily. "Or don't you want to cheer for them?"

"Did I say anything about leaving? We were going over to join the Hufflepuffs. I support Cedric, you see."

With that he pulls Hermione away, but they do not join the Hufflepuffs. Instead they go to the rapidly growing group around Angelina Johnson, sixth year, and fellow Gryffindor.

"Are you and Draco really cousins," Hermione asks curiously. Draco was not surprised to be addressed as such. Had he always assumed that Harry knew? Would things have been different if Harry had known?

"Third cousins," Harry confirms. "Through the Blacks. Oh, there you are, Ron. We are all related, one way or the other, aren't we? Mr Weasley's mother was another Black."

Ron groans: "Leave the family tree alone, Harry. There are monsters hidden inside. Do you think we'll have to wait much longer for that thing?" He gestures towards the goblet.

"No, I think I see Dumbledore and the other judges. It should be over soon."

"Yeah. Durmstrang's will be Krum, of course. No idea about us. I hope it's not the pretty boy. Would be embarrassing."

"Yes? Really? He is a top student, seeker and the captain of a Quidditch team."

"Krum's an international star," Ron says heatedly.

"Yes, but we don't have of our own, do we? So we will have to make do with what we have," Hermione points out, then changes topic: "Don't you wonder what Draco is doing here? He is too young to compete."

"You are right. Dunno what he wants here. Hey, look at Dumbledore!"

Professor Dumbledore extinguishes the candles with a wave of his wand. Hermione's tension returnes at full force. She really ...wants to hold someone's hand now. _You are being ridiculous_, she tells herself. She looked around in the semi-dark room and sees shadows and little else.

Then the Goblet of Fire glows. And makes its choice known. By way of spiting out paper; no thundering voice from no-where, thank the good taste of whoever constructed it.

"Viktor Krum!" Applause.

"Fleur Delacour!" The veela girl. Applause.

"Cedric Diggory!" Total chaos.

_"Harry Potter!"_

_Well, of course._

**O**

**O**

****O****

Things she's read, memories from Sirius's trial, snippets of talks with Susan on her aunt's many cases, all fall into place like a perfectly solved 10 000 piece puzzle, and in that moment of clarity, Hermione knows exactly what to do. Every occupant of the room is starring at him, many students craning their necks or pushing to get a better view on the boy-who-did-something-again. The whispers are gaining momentum. Sure enough, the esteemed headmaster is calling Harry. Hermione grips Harry's hand.

"Do not go to Dumbledore," she hisses.

Harry does not move.

"Harry, up here if you please!"

Harry snorts and stays right where he is. He also squeezes her hand: _we'll get through this._ Hermione squeezes back: _damn right we will.__  
><em>

"I did not enter myself into this tournament and I am not going anywhere."

The noise dies instantly.

Much of the problem, as Harry's friends have learned in three years, stems from the way Hogwarts professors handle incidents, which is behind closed doors. Always. It does not matter if a student has done something or something has happened to them. Announcements are rare and public apologies are unheard of. Which is odd, because many court cases in the magical world are settled with just that. Anyway, this is not a court case. This is an attempt to handle the infamous Hogwarts rumours. There is no stopping the students from talking, of course; Hermione just wants them to talk about what Harry _said_. And yes, to have Harry make the right impression. Because standing up to an artefact like the Goblet of Fire and claim that it wronged you is so stupid that it is quintessential Gryffindor. And Gryffindors are not devious. Therefore Harry is telling the truth... the truth being 'so precious that it sometimes needs to be guarded by a ring of lies'. Or a very, very circular argument._  
><em>

"Mr Potter, this is not the moment for discussions," McGonagall is saying, and Harry needs no prompt from Hermione to interrupt: "I think its the perfect moment for discussions. Your Goblet of Fire just decided to have a four wizard tournament instead of a three wizard one. I have no idea why it did that, but I will not be dragged into this."

_Well done_, Hermione thinks._ I bet that nobody was thinking this through and saw what an oddity it is that there is fourth name._

"Mr Potter, regardless of what happened, the Goblet of Fire represents a binding magical contract and it considers you bound."

"You mean you don't believe me. This thing is so powerful it can bind me. the same onject that I hoodwinked it into allowing a fourth contestant."

Hermione would like to dance with glee (and hex McGonagall, but that's another matter), for the whispers have died down, and the students are shooting glances at McGonagall that clearly say:_ he's got a point here._

"Harry," Dumbledore interrupts McGonagall (maybe before she says more and seriously harms herself) "what Professor McGonagall is saying is that we do not know what happened, but we do know how the Goblet works and-."

"That's illogical!"

Says Hermione. Then she realises that she said it _loudly_.

Harry squeezes her hand: "I concur."

More pieces fall into place: "If the Goblet can choose people for whatever purpose it is a judge of sorts. If it is a judge then maybe it will accept an oath."

As if on cue, the fire of the goblet all but dies down. Giving the eerie impression that it understands, and is listening.

Harry stands a little straighter: "I swear upon my life and magic that I am in no way responsible for being named by the Goblet of Fire. I do not wish to participate in this tournament and did nothing that would have led to my enrolment. _Ita ius esto."  
><em>

And there is quiet. The deafening sort.

"Granger! Are you insane! You could have killed him!"

"How would I do that, Professor Snape?" Hermione demands loudly. "Harry just stated truthfully what he did, or rather did not do. That is not a dangerous activity."

Snape seems to be going for befuddlement after the fact: "An oath on his life and magic! Have you any idea how dangerous that is?"

Hermione has never heard about oaths on life and magic but she grasps the idea instinctively, and knows exactly how to respond: "An oath is only dangerous for people who try to lie. Harry was telling the truth. Nothing could have happened to him."

Strangely, Snape is not claiming that Harry somehow cheated. (Which should be possible. Oaths are about what one believes to be true. Surely, belief can be manufactured.) Yet, Snape, he who once claimed that Harry had let Neville hurt himself so that he himself would look competent in comparison, is not choosing to go that route. Why isn't he?_  
><em>

"One wrong word, Granger! One word would have been enough!"

"You miserable git, he was telling the truth! The oath is not dangerous IF YOU DON'T LIE! IT'S CALLED TELLING THE TRUTH! YOU MUST HAVE HEARD ABOUT IT!"

There. She has burned her career in politics, her Potions Mastery, and her chance to ever become Mrs Snape. How will she survive?

The great Intervener regains his voice: "Severus, calm down please. Your worry does you credit, but Miss Granger happens to be right in this instance."

"How do you know that," Harry speaks up suddenly, stretching out his wand: "Avis! Avis! Avis!" Three tiny birds shoot out of the wand, thus proving that Harry is still able to do magic. "Now you know that the oath was true," he says emphatically. Hermione beams, but finds herself overcast.

"Yes, Harry," the headmaster says gravely. "That was well done indeed. Everybody must now accept that you are speaking the truth. However, we cannot change the fact that your name came out of the Goblet of Fire. You may assured that we will get to the bottom of that, but for now you must join the other champions or suffer terrible consequences. Please Harry. Go now."

Dumbledore has finally said it: Harry is not lying. And it only took a shouting match and an allegedly dangerous oath on Harry's part to get that concession.

Harry looks coldly at the headmaster: "I don't think I will."

"Harry, the Goblet is an ancient magical artefact of great power! Even I cannot protect you from it! Please join the other champions now!"

Hermione squeezes Harry's hand:_ Ignore him._ Harry squeezes back:_ Don't worry.  
><em>

"Someone manipulated that mighty artefact into producing the name of a fourth champion. I think I will take my chances," Harry states. _  
><em>

"Harry, please. You cannot imagine the danger-"

As if it's heard anough, the Goblet starts shaking, its jewels vibrating as if trying to pry themselves loose from the old wood. A deep hum fills the room, and its growing deeper, darker and louder. Dumbledore shouts something, tries to grip Harry, but he can't touch him, and Harry can't hear him, the noise is already too loud, the Goblet explodes, flames shooting up to the ceiling of the chamber, and the fire roars, and the Goblet unfolds red wings like a monstrous fiery bird. Harry's three birds screech and fly straight at it. The fiery bird screams. And screams, and screams. And falls silent. The pressure that had been building up disappears as well, and everybody in the room knows that this was it. This time the goblet (now a mere object, albeit an old and precious one) will remain silent.

Nothing has been burned, destroyed or killed. The goblet stands unchanged on its pillar. Dumbledore staggers and falls away from Harry. The (rightful) champions have returned into the Great Hall and are staring at him and Dumbledore. The High Table is in frozen uproar. The mass of Hogwarts students is a silent antediluvian beast, about to breath its own fire. Harry thinks about lion tamers and distractions. He pulls his wand. This time he calls 'Bubo' and a beautiful snowy owl pops onto his raised left arm. Proving that no matter what just happened, Harry Potter is still a wizard.

"Hello girl," Harry greets his owl with as much nonchalance as he can muster. "I am sorry for inconveniencing you, but I've seen enough odd birds today." Somebody snickers. Hedwig, uttelry unimpressed by everything, barks. "Right, you want to hunt. I am taking you back outside this instant. Hermione, would you like to come?"

He offers Hermione his right arm, she takes it, they leave. An ordinary young wizard and witch, to whom something odd happened, yes, but they are not getting excited about it, so there is no reason why anybody else should. _It will be sorted out soon enough_, their retreating forms seem to be saying, and: _the owl wants her dinner. You will excuse us._

**O**

Hedwig takes off, a tiny speck of white, soon invisible.

"Good hunting, girl. Sirius should know about this, but-"

"There's a compete lock-down on owl post." _The usual buzz of the walls was slightly off key._

"Yeah. Look at the owls. Like damp cats, all of them" _He was right, they were._ "Can they block the floo?"

"Inside the school? Of course they can. The Hogwarts wards are-"

"Nothing if not impressive. And tied to the current headmaster."

"Not totally. But for our current purpose-"

"Incommunicado. Never mind. Something will present itself." Harry shrugs.

"Harry? Hermione?" Something is already running towards them.

"Cedric? What's the matter?" An unreasonably handsome Hufflepuff seeker and Quidditch captain joins them, closely followed by a huffing Susan.

"I should ask that," Cedric exclaims. "Are you all right? That thing was frightening."

"The bark was worse than the bite. I am still intact, thank you Cedric."

Cedric stares at him incredulously, then shakes his head, laughing: "I don't believe you, kid. I'll start believing the rumours about you, and there are a couple of wild ones around, in case you did not know."

"He does not mean the one about you killing the muggleborns," Susan interjects sternly. "He'll believe the good ones, right Cedric?"

"Yes ma'am. Of course, ma'am."

"Hermione, I tried calling my aunt but the floo was blocked." Susan tells her newest friend. "Unfortunately- Well, I was too late." She bites her lip.

"They won't want the students to start spreading crazy rumours. You know how we are, you just mentioned it yourself," Hermione says soothingly. She has an inkling that Susan is thinking about Amelia's field time-turner. Yes, a time-turner would have been a way.

"Never mind that now," she adds, more to herself, but Susan nods in agreement anyway.

Cedric considers asking if the girls want to share anything and decides against it. Hufflepuffs know better than to question Susan when she is channelling her auntie.

"I hope everyone's convinced," Hermione muses. "What do you guys think?"

"I think that everyone is convinced not to mess with Harry here." is Cedric's answer.

"You mean they would mess with Hermione? Oh joy. I hope they provide popcorn."

"They tend to underestimate the quiet ones," Cedric says slowly, looking between the two of them. "Magical oaths are not as universally known as Veritaserum but Snape did you a service there, the git. The students will shoot their mouths off, but they cannot doubt that you said the truth."

"I wondered about that," Hermione admits. "He could have accused Harry of cheating, but he never did."

Susan snorts: "Snape never says more than he can get away with, and he damn well knows that he cannot accuse a fourteen year old of having mastered Mind Magic without becoming a laughingstock."

"But why did he not, I don't know, claim that Obliviation was involved?"

Cedric looks shocked and even Susan blinks for a moment before remembering how new her friend still is to this world: "That's the same as calling him a low life of the worst sort. Not long ago it would have led to a honour duel." Susan takes s deep breath and adds: "_Obliviation is for muggles. Only a scoundrel does it to himself. _Old fashioned wizards still teach their kids that."

"Well. That certainly explains why wizards are not completely paranoid about having their memories stolen. Poor Professor Snape could say nothing without helping Harry. Do you think he will commit seppuku? "

Cedric opens his mouth ...and closes it again. Some girls are more bloodthirsty than others.

"Where's Ron, by the way? Did anyone of you see him?"

Susan did: "He raced out of the hall when the people started shouting. Left poor Ginny all alone. She was besides herself. Luna Lovegood stayed with her."

Harry frowns deeply: "We should get back. Our friends will be worried." He smiles and Cedric and Susan: "Thank you for coming. It was- I appreciate it, really."

Cedric puts a hand on Harry shoulder; then he catches himself and grins self-deprecatingly: "Ok, no drama. I am bad at it. Let's go back inside."

They make it back into the castle, a procession of four. The other students are mostly back in their dorms and the few they encountered stare, but do not speak. At all. Before the Hall they bide each other good night and go in twos to their respective dorms.

"The Hufflepuff common room is really cosy," Hermione notes apropos of nothing. "But in a luxurious sort of way. Ravenclaw has books and tables and great light, but Hufflepuff has these really amazing sofas and chairs like a salon in a baroque château."

"Interesting. Slytherin- I've heard that it is very stylish in a gloomy way. Gothic. With windows facing into the lake."

"And who told you what the Slytherin common room is like, Mister Potter?"

"Everyone knows that I speak with snakes, Miss Granger."

"Hm. I've been meaning to ask you, how did you know what words to use for the oath? The Latin words you used in the end. I've never even seen a book on magical contracts. Was it something you found in Sirius's library?"

"I had no idea that these were the correct words," Harry says nonchalantly. "I think I'll ask Sirius, he should know, with that family of his."

"But how did you know to say those particular words, Harry?"

"I didn't. I was improvising, and I remembered a scene from some historical film I saw long ago. It was an impressive scene," Harry adds as an afterthought.

_A film? He just repeated words he half remembered from some sword-and-sandal film, _Hermione wonders, nut stranger things have happened, and she does not press the point. They ascend the tower in amiable silence. Ron is waiting for them directly after the Fat Lady. He looks tussled and worried.

"There you are! Harry, I took a broom and flew to to Hogsmeade the moment my brain started working again. I flooed mum and Sirius from the Three Broomsticks. They are both on their way. Hermione, Sirius said that he would call your parents. I am to tell you that you do not need to worry."

"Ron." Hermione breathes, completely taken aback: "Why on earth did you go to Hogsmeade?"

Ron blushes violently: "I don't remember. I wasn't thinking. I mean, it seemed like the right thing to do. It was stupid, wasn't it? Only, everyone was so strange, even Dumbledore, and with all that ancient magic breaking loose- I think I thought that the wards may be damaged, or the floo. I do not know. And owls want to hunt at night, so I could not send a letter without loosing a finger, and well, it was faster. And well, our families should know about this, right?" He looks at her like a puppy awaiting a rolled paper.

Hermione takes a deep breath: "Ron- no: Sir Ronald. You are a Round Table all by yourself, and I do not mean your food intake. You are a tactical genius, and if McGonagall doesn't have the sense to make you Quidditch Captain, what am I saying, she bloody better will, or- Harry, say something! Ron was brilliant!"

Harry nods slowly: "I dub thee Sir Ronald, most valiant of all my knights," he says gravely. Ron turns a shade of red that bodes ill for his heart.

"Seriously Ron," Harry continues in a normal tone, "You are right, our families should know as soon as possible, and thanks to you they now do. While we were all dazed you did the only thing that was possible and made sure that we wont be alone in this. Now I know why I will never beat you at chess. That was bloody amazing, plan and execution. You forgot to take a coat, didn't you? You look frozen."

Ron stares, a mad grin slowly blooming on his still flushed face: "That's nothing," he declares cavalierly. " I'll ask Madam Pomfrey for a pepper up if I am not well tomorrow."

"You will take one _now_, Ronald," Hermione snaps at him. She is getting good at snapping, she thinks.

Ron's grin grows to face splitting proportions: "Nah, I'll have a warm butterbeer. Go inside, you two. Gryffindor is celebrating tonight."

**OOO**

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

_Beyond this place there be dragons.  
><em>

;-)

So, it took some time but the characters and story are now firmly in AU territory. I expect I will have to start describing things instead of briefly alluding to what *we all know anyway*. Having said that I will also admit that introspection-based developement comes *naturally* to me.

Canon does not contain inverted flying maneuvres (that's pilot speak and refers to positive and negative forces). Rowling does acknowledge physics every now and then; the noise caused by displaced air when wizards apparate is one example. Hermione's thoughts are incomplete btw. because I realised in mid-sentence that I lack Mr. Feynman's ability to talk engagingly about physics. Full disclosure: I did not read_ Quidditch Through the Ages_. Just HP 1-7.

I have read a lot of Ron-bashing on FF. He does not belong to the set of my favourite characters. But I decided to take the Creatrix at her word and see him as a person who means well but suffers from an inability to find his place in the world. I am curious as to where this will lead him/me.

I rewrote the section with the oath. I never meant to use the Oath That Proves Everything Beyond A Doubt because by removing doubt and uncertainty you kill the narrative. I also did not want to drop new and unheard-of magic into the situation with the goblet, and I wanted to get Hermione more into the limelight while having a little fun with the Hermione-happens-to-have-read-the-perfect-dursty-tome trope. Which is why Harry knows the correct form for an ancient Roman oath (don't ask me what period of Roman history) from telly.

So, there is no perfect resolution (another thing that should only occur at the end of a story, IMO, not in the middle) for that situation. Harry did not allow himself to be dragged into the tournament without protesting. Hermione wanted to make sure that everybody heard Harry. And Snape... well, Snape has his own motives. You'll see.


	10. An ancient magical artefact II

**Chapter 6**, **wherein insights are appreciated**

* * *

><p>Mrs Weasley and Sirius do not join them that night even though the three frieds wait – and party– deep into the night.<p>

At some point Hermione corners Harry, spatially and metaphorically: "Have you any idea what it is that we're celebrating tonight?"

Harry shakes his head: "You are the resident genius, you tell me."

"I do feel like celebrating, don't get me wrong," Hermione continues. "I do think that we snatched you out of the way of a bullet tonight." She gestures to the centre of the common room, which is indeed full of happy students, eating, drinking and chatting loudly. "What is their excuse?"

"Ron's knighthood?" Harry asks mildly. "We are getting entirely too cynical, you and I. This could very well be high spirits and someone's secret stash of butterbeer."

"Forgive me for appreciating insight into my motivation," Hermione replies stubbornly.

"Merlin, Mione, couldn't you have wrapped that in longer words? I almost understood you there," jokes Ron as he deposits more butterbeer in front of them and slumps into the chair opposite Harry's.

"Sorry Ron."

"Sir Ronald, please."

"There's your answer Hermione: we are celebrating the knightly accolade of Ronald the-"

"Devourer. Does anyone other than the three of us know that?"

"Know what, Mione," asks Ron, proffering a bottle.

Hermione shakes her head: "Thank you, but I prefer it warm."

"I can warm it," Ron offers. "But I can't transfigure the bottle into a mug. The glass is spelled against breaking and that interferes with transfiguration."

"Really? How do you know that?"

Ron looks surprised: "Don't you?"

"No, it's one of the many things no-one mentions because everyone knows them. Never mind. Are you sure about the safety charms on the glass? I wonder what they use."

"Er, it's this rune here, see?" Ron shows her a tiny irregular bulge at the bottom of the bottle. "Dad told me about it some years back. He had had a case, once, where wizards had bought bottles from muggle manufacturers and had used them for butterbeer. They had then planted them at a feast with tight security, so that they could then use them as weapons later. That was before he transferred to Muggle Artefacts, obviously."

"Was that an -"

"Did it work?"

Harry and Hermione look at each other and grin bashfully.

"You need to work on your twin speak," Ron observes. And Hermione finally notices that being in high spirits does wonders for Ron's cognitive capacities_ and _for his manners.

"We'll improve it," Harry promises. "But tell us, did it work?"

"Before I tell you, I want to know what Mione was going to ask."

"I wanted to know if that was an official function with important guests or more of a Sicilian family affair. Wait, there wouldn't have had any butterbeer _bottles_ at an official function, would they? Guess I answered my own question, then. And I assume that it worked out partly at least, because you've already said that your father was there as a Ministry official."

"I still want to know if the persons who went into all that rather intricate trouble did get their target and what the casualties were," Harry insists.

"What do you think? Either of you," Ron asks fascinated.

"I've already told you what I think. Sicilian family affair, or else a Viking banquet. Now, as to the casualties. Both scenarios imply that all parties were comfortable with violence. I vote for outright carnage and the Ministry send in afterwards to mop up and decide which body parts had been who."

"I vote for abduction and Polyjuice. Who are you, bloodthirsty beast, and what did you do to Hermione Granger?"

"I've been meaning to ask that since she send you sweets with real sugar that were called 'Dead Man's Bones', mate," Ron comments casually.

"Do you think it was the twins' influence?"

"Harry, the sweets came before the flying lessons."

"And the hen came before the egg. But not before the other egg."

"I am not a hen," Hermione says with as much dignity as she can muster.

"Really? You publicly ate a slimy worm today, Mione. There must be celebrations all over the castle."

"Wait, what," she exclaims. "This is what we are celebrating?"

"What did you think," Ron asks nonplussed. "Was there anything else?"

"What about Harry taking on Dumbledore and the Goblet and winning?"

Ron starts saying something, then pauses: "About that, Mione. Pretend that that did not happen. If we are lucky that's what Dumbledore will do, and if we are luckier still the Ministry will play along."

Hermione can only stare at him.

"Why would this goblet be so important, Ron," Harry asks, frowning and leaning forwards.

Ron looks around. The common room is still in festive uproar. Harry, realising that Ron does not want to be overheard, discreetly casts the privacy spell Sirius had taught him: "It's all right, you can talk. I've got us covered."

"I hope that means what I think that it means," Ron comments worriedly. "And I hope that it is as good as you say it is. Maybe I am overreacting, but here goes: The Goblet of Fire was commissioned for the Institution of the first Ministry of Magic. It is used as an acknowledged impartial judge, and it was necessary for the institution of a central magical government of Britain. Percy says that agreeing on the powers and offices of the future ministry was hard enough. Voting was impossible since alliances were changing all the time, so once they had managed to agree on candidates they brought the Goblet in to do the rest."

"Ron, I have been paying attention in history and you haven't. Why don't I know this?"

"Binns did mention the unification of the British magical governments. He said it happened as a response to some war with the, ah, was it Goblins or Giants? I don't remember. But I think you were petrified at that time. Yes, you were newly petrified, that's why I remember it. I'd been paying attention, in order to take notes for you," Harry answers in Ron's stead. "Tried to, anyway," he adds sheepishly.

"I am hereby adopting you, Harry. You are now officially my younger brother and cuddly pet for life," Hermione says as well as she can around an unexpected lump in her throat. She remembers... she shouldn't, lest she got sentimental. "I hope you don't mind, because if you mind it won't help you," she adds instead.

"We would be Irish Twins," is Harry's rather distant answer. "And none of us a red head. Hey, Ron, where are your brothers? Did they get rid of their beards?"

Ron blushes violently, leaving Harry to wonder what he just said, or, more to the point, what Ron heard.

"When did Percy tell you all this things about the Goblet Ron," Hermione asks now, tone possibly a tad subdued.

"He told it Ginny and Luna after I'd left and Ginny told me."

"We met Susan Bones and she mentioned that Ginny did not take the whole evening well," Harry says slowly, realising what had bothered him about that story. He knows Ginny from his holidays at the Burrow and would have thought her tougher than that. He now looks for her; she's nowhere to be seen. "She is all right, isn't she?"

"There's nothing wrong with Ginny. She got a little exited and Percy took her aside, sensitive little sister and all that," Ron says dismissively, "and she promptly pounced on him and made him tell her everything about the Goblet. Ginny says that Percy was really worried. Said that tampering with the Goblet might be regarded as an attack on the Ministry, what with its historical meaning. See, that's why I told you to pretend that nothing happened. The tournament was revived as part of an ongoing attempt to strengthen our international ties. Then Beauxbatons and Durmstrang demanded that the Goblet be used for the tournament. The casting of the selection spell was witnessed by observers from two uninvolved countries. Now the Goblet has failed twice: first when it named a fourth champion, then when it did not strip Harry of his magic. Have you any idea what size a shit storm that means? And you two are already inside." He thinks for a moment: "Sorry about the sh-word, Mione."

'Mione' is shocked out of her wits. Happily, wit is just one section of her mental capacities:

"International relations are that bad? That's- I do not know if it is ridiculous or terrible or both!"

"Mione, we cannot agree on something as stupid as a standard cauldron bottom thickness. And Dad says that the rest of Europe hates us anyway because we never solved our You-know-who-problem properly. Apparently they'd been terrified that it would spill over. Like Grindelwald did in the forties. Mind you, Grindelwald was their problem that spilled over to us."

Hermione has been biting her lower lip all through Ron's explanations. Now she gripps her own head with both hands: "How many people here at Hogwarts know what you know, Ron? What do you reckon?"

"The professors, obviously. Students with parents at the ministry, possibly. Everyone, if they talk."

"Will they talk," Harry wonders. "Wait a moment." He runs to his dorm and returned with a book. When he opens it – after casting two different privacy spells – he shows them the Marauder's Map. Dumbledore's office is empty. The Hufflepuff common room is full of agitated people. Celebrating Cedric, he hopes. The Ravenclaws are mostly in their dorms. Too intellectual to be perturbed? The Slytherin common room is full, but hardly anyone's moving. Snape is not to be found anywhere, as Harry points out to Ron and Hermione.

"How good is this thing, Harry," Hermione asks sharply. She knows about it, of course, but between her schedule and their estrangement last year this is the first time she sees it: "Is this a realtime representation?"

"It did not fail Sirius and my dad who had it for four years, it did not fail Fred and George in three years and it did not fail me, either. I used it to avoid people during the recent trouble with Snape, remember?"

"Of course I remember. Could I borrow it for tonight? I'd like to cast some diagnostic spells, see if I can figure out the general shape of the enchantments. I wonder-" her voice trails off. She wonders if anyone else had a map like this. She understands that Harry's father and his friends had been excellent students, but they had been students nonetheless. She wants to see if she could make it trace itself, see if it could locate other, similar devices. "I want to see if I can add to it. Pictures would be nice. Sound too."

Harry snapps the book shut and hands it over: "Of course you can borrow my _Quidditch Stars Today_, Hermione. What a question! Are you going to check Krum's favourite subject at school," he asks playfully.

Hermione huffs. _That was a joke_, she admonishes herself sternly. But she does not reach for the book.

"Ron, could you leave us for a moment?" Ron leaps up and leaves. "Hermione, you know that I'd be honoured to be your fluffy teddy bear, right?"

"That was just something I said on the spur of the moment Harry," Hermione says a little bit too coldly.

"That's all right, then," Harry replies lightly. "Want the book?"

"Yes, thank you. I'll return it as soon as possible. Viktor's favourite food can't be hard to find," she tries to joke and Harry smiles reassuringly: "The still-beating hearts of the Irish chasers and the grilled liver of his own team's keeper. Oy, Ron! Are there any pies left?"

Ron is indeed inspecting the table with the bottles and food: "Minced meat or mushrooms," he called. "What do you want?"

"One of each."

"Hermione?"

"One mushroom, please."

Ron selects six pies and returns.

"Who improvised this little party, anyway," Harry enquires sometime after the first pie.

"No idea, mate. It was in full swing when I got here."

Hermione suppresses the urge to eye her pie with suspicion. The Hogwarts kitchens are extremely efficient, as every Hogwarts student knows. An impromptu party is nothing for them. She just had never realised that students are allowed to trouble the elves.

"Ron? You never finished that story with the beer bottles," Harry suddenly remembers.

"You did not tell me your theory," Ron retorts without missing a beat.

"I'll go with official function but the beverage doesn't fit. Unless the target was a behind-the-scenes person. Some minister's aide who doubled as a spy? It is that sort of plot. Now. Spill the beans."

"It was a supposedly friendly meeting after a supposedly friendly international Quidditch game. Wales against Austria. I was two, and dad left International Relations after that. That's how bad it must have been."

Hermione frowns but doesn't say anything. It's been that kind of day, and now it's really late, too. She's tired. And wants to check the map. And hopefully dream about tea with the foundations of the castle: "Thunder and Lightening," she mumbles. "I am going to bed. They won't be coming tonight and I am awfully tired."

"Don't explain that. What time is it anyway?" asks Ron.

"Dunno. Two? Where's Ginny, by the way?"

"Stayed with Luna in Ravenclaw tonight."

Harry notices Ron's ears redden. Luna is the daughter of a neighbour of the Weasley family. She and Ginny have been friends forever, they visit each other often, Molly Weasley told Harry last summer. Does that add up with Ron's ears? It might: Harry is good with plots, his life had seen to it. ...he thinks that his interpretation of the butterbeer story might still be partly correct.

**O**

Hermione draws her bed curtains, silences them and openes the map. Sirius Black and Molly Weasley are not in Hogwarts, if this thing was right. ...the professors have other means of observation. The headmaster has the entire wards tied to his person. (Does it invite him for tea, too?) The portraits and ghosts are part of the 'safety measures' and answer to each and any of the professors: the professors simply do not need to think of something like this map. It's a student project, through and through... she hopes. Now, the way the map worked implies that it's somehow reading the wards. How did a group of students produce something that can do that?

"How to read you," she muses.

Snippets like fireflies in her mind:_ the wards monitor the students. The map is looking through a connection that is supposed to work one way only. The twins say that pranksters utilize known methods in new ways and the Marauders were a prankster's pranksters. But they were more than that, _ she realises now. _James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood households. Think 'traditional, controlling parents'. Think 'magic'. Makes 'heavy sophisticated wards'. They must have been poking their magical babyphones for security vulnerabilities since before they could walk. And then they build on that. _

That does not bode well for her. And she has no access to unknown magic that could circumvent all this... dreams or no dreams. Yes, she is becoming aware of an additional...something. A promisisng something, but she's not _there_, yet, not by a long shot. And that leaves her first idea: something completely banal. Something that an intelligent person with vast expertise would never ever try, because their brain would implode before it allowed such a stupid thought to form. Thus leaving the kind of whole that somebody clever but completely unfamiliar with wards would notice, and could exploit. (She is aware that she's being wildy optimistic, but again, the map is the work of students, and while she cannot match their knowledge pf practical matters. she will not be intimidated by their brains.) So, what was the most stupid idea she can conceive of? The most ridiculous of all. ...how about taking a picture of the map? Picture taking spells are (theoretically at least) supposed to record the nature of a person. The ridiculous part being magical painitngs are too pretty to be depicting the real characters of people... and Professor Babbling has told them about people who take runic components of spells out of context, and everybody giggled when she did, because every sane witch or wizard knows that context is everything. Therefore, photographing the map is a patently ridiculous idea.

"True image," she says.

The bottle opened and the ink rose like smoke. It circled her head... faint swishing sound, no: a breath. A faint sound of air being sucked away. The inky smoke swishes inside the bed curtains, sucking air away. Then it swishes to the paper. A sketch appeared. A simple drawing of Hogwarts castle.

For a moment she feels thoroughly dejected, but for whatever reason, maybe because that attempt _did_ produce the sketch, which is remarkably intricate, now that she looks at it...

She repeats the spell, this time with a koda for more power.

_...and this is why long scrolls of parchment are superior to sheets of paper. Wow. Is this really the wards of Hogwards in runic script? Or is it elaborate abuse in Anglo-saxon?_

A quick scan revealed no obvious obscenities. Hm. An early epic that she recognised? It would be like the people who had spelled the staircases of Hogwarts to provide a recital of _Beowulf_.

More air disappears. The runic script trembles and dissolvs like mist.

**You are worthy.**

_What? No 'thou'?_

**We speak as you speak.**

_Hm. I did dub a knight today, now that you mention it. That is, I suggested it. But it happened._

**You are worthy, but what are your intentions?**

_Protection. Safety. I worry about my friends and myself._

**This is why you have friends. They keep you human.**

_Well. Duh. Really?_

**Believe us. We know.**

_And this joke's on me. I hope you are a prankster I haven't encountered before, at least._

The words vibrate but do not dissolve. Hermione could imagine that laughing words might look the way these do. If words could laugh._ Let's not distract ourselves with questions about consciousness, and what constitutes a mind. Now, 'you'. Are you going to introduce yourselves? Nope, that was it. Never mind. It was worth a try. Next time I'll try 'reverto' and then a rune, after all. They are basic enough for beer bottles. _

**Will there be a next time?**

_Of course. It produced an effect. I need to understand what happened, if nothing else._

_**You are our student.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Other differences aside I want to point out that this Hermione has not witnessed the appaling abuse of Winky, as seen in the original Quidditch World Cup.


	11. Artful diversion

** Chapter 7, **

**Wherein People are being diverted**

**and  
><strong>

**Order is being upheld  
><strong>

* * *

><p>"This century is a disgrace," said a quiet, sinister voice.<p>

Sirius did not react.

"This is the second half-giant now. The second! And Dumbledore employs a goblin."

_A quarter goblin_, thought Sirius. _Though it does make you wonder about other people's preferences._

"Knowing you your only care is that the Frenchwoman's father must have been attractive."

_A god,_ Sirius agreed silently. _He was competing with giant genes and won. And not only in the looks compartment._ Madame Maxime hadn't become headmistress of a highly prestigious school by stomping the competition.

"I see my worthless son's apoplexy potion is still in use."

_The worthless lout who headed St. Mungo's for four decades. After his prominent father disinherited him. I bet you did not like being ignored by the greater public. _The potion in question might have been any of Phineas the Younger's many contributions to the treatment of spasms, and one of several potions that were rumoured to be used by people who had no other way of controlling their facial musculature. A quick fix before important discussions. The finely tuned use of one's mimic was an art. Insinuating the use of a potion was an insult.

_Not that there is nothing ridiculous about spending years in mirrored rooms in order to train oneself according to current style,_ Sirius thought. Mimic art, like duelling, had sprouted schools and styles. And fashions. Countless hours of thought and practice had gone into discussion and interpretation of the correct placement of an eyebrow. Sirius had a beautiful collection of satiric art on the subject. Inherited from uncle Alphard, another white sheep of the family, who had been a sought-after trainer of the art. Had tutored chosen pupils, often enough promising half-bloods for politics. Second generation wizards, as he called them. It was a testament to Alphard's mastery that he had lasted most of his life before being blasted from the family tree.

_What a way to go out, after a lifetime of diversion and subtlety. Guess uncle Alphard always had a great sense of humour. Wonder what the ministry would look like today, if Voldemort hadn't killed most of his pupils in the first war. _He shot a covert look at Percy Weasley, a pale, freckled mess, whose air of self-importance had not survived the first hour of a night in Dumbledore's office. Minister Fudge was not there yet. Sirius hoped that he would stay away, but that depended on his counterparts. _And on Dumbledore's ability to keep the floor to himself, of course. Scratch that: Dumbledore's willingness to admit other players._

"Too tiresome. It is either an incident or it isn't," said Phineas. "They should decide and deal with it accordingly. Instead they are going back and forth like toddlers who are standing for the first time on all fours."

_And you know everything about toddlers, don't you? _Sirius did not delude himself: he was not a player, he was a pawn. Albus had allowed him to enter the castle, just as he had done with Molly Weasley. Why? They presence of guardians / parents of students might serve as a reminder that this was an incident at a school, after all. The parent / guardian being Molly and himself might be useful against Karkaroff. A Death Eater who had struck a deal with the Wizengamot (and claimed fear for his family; then again, Malfoy had claimed the Imperius) against the sister of two fallen heroes and officially-a-good-guy-again Sirius Black. Karkaroff was rather timid, he had to give him that. He could do nasty very well, but he didn', just thent._ Thank Merlin for Harry's brain, to think of a magical oath. And his friend_, Sirius reminded himself. He had not forgotten the girl's part in the events that had led to his rehabilitation and freedom. Girls, several of them.

Karkaroff _was_ playing around with the international-incident card. He would look at it, fan himself with it every now and then, generally hold it up in the air for everyone to see, but not really attempt to place it. Yet. Was that because Madame Maxime had said nothing in that direction and Karkaroff did not know if she would choose to pull the rug out from under his feet? Madame Maxime was watching silently. She would hardly remain silent for all of the evening. Karkaroff was now talking about the champions:

"You see, I am not prepared to admit that my champion was choosen wrongly. It would cause a world of trouble for us, to have something of the sort be said about such a famous and popular athlete. We really only took the others along because of the official agreement to present the Goblet with a choice. A point that was of some importance to your own ministry, as you may remember, Albus..."

What the hell was the man talking about? Was this really about the slight to a Quidditch player? Even a spectacular player like Krum did not warrant that sort of attention. Sirius had read about the game and seen the photographs, of course. Harry's account had been particularly funny.

"Back and forth, back and forth. It is nauseating, this inability of your so-called authority figures to take a matter into their own hands and deal with it."

_Take a matter into their own hands. Thing is, uncle Phineas, that this is not a problem of disrespectful school children, never mind that we are sitting in your old office. This is an important magical artefact malfunctioning in the middle of a delicate process thet concerns foreign affairs. But I suppose that this is too much for a portrait to understand. Your portrait, especially, you silly old man. _Maybe waiting – biding for time – was all this was about. The three Headmasters were going back and forth until their respective ministries decided something. Or the ICW, which had witnessed part of the negotiations for the tournament. Arthur had brought Sirius up to date before Molly and he had flooed to Hogsmeade. But why would they need to talk at all? Couldn't they wait in their respective beds? The three of them were glorified school teachers, not ministers! Well, Albus was the current head of the ICW. And he was here, too. Was Karkaroff keeping him back on purpose with all that useless talk of his? Was Fudge really this uninterested in the whole matter?

Why was he himself here at all? Because he could leave without drawing attention to himself and, by extension, to Harry. Who should not have been part of this at all. Unfortunately, being here meant that he could not look after Harry, who might have been confused, angry, worried- a number of things. Without help and support from the person who was supposed to be responsible for him. At least he had send Remus to Amelia before bolting to the Burrow.

_Yes, great. Now she can tell Mr and Mrs Granger and they can worry, too. It seems that I am unable to learn,_ Sirius Black thought to himself. _Which is fascinating, considering that the last time I let my impulses guide me I landed in Azkaban. So much for your belief in severe punishment as a valuable part of education, uncle Phineas._

**O**

Harry woke up and stretched happily. He felt utterly happy, without knowing why that should have been the case. He was feeling utterly – but not unbearably – light. _Unbearably light?_ He was thinking strange thoughts this morning. Why would he do that?

Why would he care? Happiness was enough, wasn't it?

_Forgive me for appreciating insight into my own motivation._

Strange thoughts. Harry looked at the ceiling of his bed. He hadn't closed his curtains properly last night _– that morning – _and the red and gold cubicle was filled with bright light. Dust motes were dancing to the rhythm of ...snoring for two voices? Harry laughed silently to himself.

_I think that we managed to snatch you out of the way of a bullet tonight._

Yesterday. Merlin! Harry found himself transported back into the Great Hall, saw the Goblet of Fire, heard Dumbledore call him... and felt nothing but elation. Had the Goblet Bird really looked like an archaeopteryx? Ron had said that the Goblet had been crated some time in the fourteenth century. They had probably tried to make it look like a dragon.

_Don't be daft. Wizards know what dragons look like_, he thought. True. Maybe he could ask Hermione if she fancied a spot of research into magical palaeontology. ...now, there was an absurd image! Up there with Snape in Mrs Longbottom's clothes. Harry's happier memories tended to incorporate a strong haptic note, such as the precise way he had laughed and held his rips when Neville had tackled his boggart back in third year. Harry remembered sensations that he had liked. Or that had been particularly bad. Never mind that now. Right now he liked the way he felt. He... felt entirely too wide awake to stay in bed. The intensity of the light was unusual for this season, however. Slowly he made his way went to the window. Sure enough, the grounds where covered with fluffy early snow. Harry collected fresh clothes from his trunk and made his way to the bathroom.

When he returned he found a house-elf waiting, which was unusual. Hogwarts house-elves were bonded to the headmaster – of course – and kept out of the way of the students. Comming closer – there was really a lot of light in this room – he realised it was not a Hogwarts elf. This was Kreacher.

"Good morning Master Harry," croaked Kreacher. "Master Black is awaiting you in your common room."

"Good morning Kreacher. Is that worthless dogfather of mine letting you look after him or is he being himself," Harry greeted the elf.

"Master Harry is too kind to Kreacher. Kreacher brought Master Harry his new winter clothes with him that had not been delivered when Master Harry left. Kreacher also brought special tea ingredients and fixings for Master Harry his friend, as Master requested."

"Is that what Thunder and Lightening is? A special type of afternoon tea? Well, I'd never. Thank you very much Kreacher. I had better go and see Sirius now."

Kreacher nodded respectfully. Then he snapped his fingers. Harry's clothes lost their creases and rearranged themselves more perfectly on Harry. Harry smiled to himself. He knew without turning that Kreacher smiled, too.

He had barely descended the stairs when a big black dog pounced on him: "Harry! Did Kreacher wake you up? Are you all right?"

Very well, Sirius _was_ currently walking on two legs instead of four, but that was all: "Get off, Padfoot. Of course I am all right. Why shouldn't I?"

Sirius snorted: "Because you are Harry James Potter, my dogson and trouble magnet extraordinaire. I wish I could say that James would have been proud of you but I think that even he would not have laughed about an international incident."

"That's because he never witnessed one. Or caused one. Poor dad. He is somewhere, swearing about it right now.."

"Very cavalier, Harry," Sirius said in a tight voice.

He must have had a hard night, Harry thought. Reproaching people for having rotten luck was not Sirius's style. That was more like Molly Weasley, who was also present. Her plump figure and old-fashioned good robes contrasted amusingly with Sirius's tall, thin stature and expensively simple formal clothes.

"Good Morning Mrs Weasley," he greeted her politely. Not warmly. She had not kept her misgivings towards Sirius to herself, last summer, and he was suspicious of her presence now. True, Ron had called her. But what was she doing here? The resident Weasleys had not been involved in yesterday's mess: "What brings you to us on this lovely cold morning?"

"Harry, dear," Mrs Weasley smiled tiredly at him. "How are you? Ron told me that Ginny was rather shaken by yesterday's events, and your godfather offered to take me along to see her."

Possible, Harry decided. But Probable? He would see.

"If you don't need Ron now I'll leave him sleep in. It got pretty late yesterday, with one thing and the other."

"He'll survive," said Mrs Weasley, suddenly cross. "I can't return home without checking on him first. Really, what was that boy thinking yesterday?"

_He was worried_, Harry thought with a flicker of irritation: "Sirius? Are we going anywhere?"

"We are going to have breakfast at Hogsmeade. You and Mrs Weasley and Ron and I. And your friend Hermione, if Minerva can find her."

"I am sure she will soon. Harry, be a dear and go get Ron."

Harry stayed where he was: "What do you mean, if she can find Hermione?"

"She was not on her dorm," said Sirius. "Go to your dorm. And get Ron."

_But I do not have the map, _Harry could not say. The map he had – lend to Hermione before going to bed – was a copy that Remus had made for him. The original was in the vaults of the MoM. Another proof in the case Sirius Black.

"Ginny is in Ravenclaw with Luna Lovegood," Harry said. "Just saying, so you do not search the whole castle for her. Ok, I am getting Ron now, but we will be a moment; Ron can be hard of hearing when he sleeps."

And he did. Right after telling Fred and George that their mother wanted to take them all to Hogsmeade. Mrs Weasley wanted to intrude on his time with his godfather? Fine. She was worried for her son because he had called his parents in a very frightening situation? Excellent. She could check on the twins, too, then. And Percy, who had obviously lost his head, considering what he had told Ginny. Oh yes, don't forget poor little Ginny, who had been too frightened to spend the night alone. If Ronnie needed his mum then surely Ginny did, too.

**O **

When Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room with Ron they found a very silent Sirius, a flustered looking Mrs Weasley, the twins, Ginny, Percy and Professor McGonagall with Hermione in tow. Hermione was wearing light grey muggle ski clothing, and looking flushed … with the cold?

"How was your early morning walk, Hermione? Snow flakes meeting meeting your expectations or shall we have it all returned?"

"The snow is very nice, Harry. It hid me most satisfactorily from Professor McGonagall, and her from me. At least until I ran into her on my way back. Sorry about that, Professor," she added.

"Don't apologise, Miss Granger. I did not see you either. Molly, Sirius, I expect this motley crew back for dinner. Have a nice day, all of you." She nodded at them and left.

**O**

Hermione ordered kippers for her breakfast. In doing so she interrupted Mrs Weasley's attempt to bring her chaotically lively troupe to heel, but she seemed to not notice that, as she proceeded to insist on Irish breakfast tea with her fish. The next to interrupt were Harry and Sirius, both of whom opted for more offal. Then the twins, who asked for Hermione's tea.

"Fine," Mrs Weasley said. "Fine. Everyone orders for themselves, please."

Somehow there was a flow that had been disrupted. It was not clear why that should have been the case or who, if it was one specific person, did it. The morning proceeded from there: when Mrs Weasley demanded an explanation of Ron's actions, he turned it easily into an account of a rather exiting flight, including a couple of hiccups he had experienced with Harry's racing broom. He even made Madam Rosmerta describe the sorry state in which he had arrived at the Three Broomsticks and raced into the floo, finally thanking Sirius for remembering to give him two galleons with which to pay for the floo powder he had used.

Percy did not help his mother either, with his insistence on the seriousness of last night's events. She tried to steer him away from his litany of possible worst-case scenarios, only to have the twins insist that he tell them all about the oncoming invasion of France and Sweden, or was it Norway?

Percy was getting a lot of attention, Harry thought. Hermione was listening intently. The twins seemed rather intent on irritating him. Mrs Weasley made several attempts to interrupt him but Ron and Ginny had joined him and Hermione respectively and were not available for diverting small-talk. The joys of variety in food, Harry thought. Hogwarts breakfast was great, of course but it was really always the same.

He would have liked to know what had happened in the headmaster's office, but asking that seemed to be out of the question. There were two possibilities, as far as he could tell: either the imminent collapse of their society as they knew it or a small matter of re-naming the already chosen champions. Percy against Sirius and Molly. Percy however seemed to calm down over the course of the morning. By his third cup of tea he was showing clear signs of reduced expectations. When he announced that he wanted to return to London (he had leave until Monday morning) he appeared to be expecting paperwork instead of a mobilisation. Sirius and Molly it was, Harry thought.

Or Hermione, who was eating very slowly and hadn't yet finished her second kipper. Who hadn't said a word after ordering. Hermione could be thinking something else entirely. Harry realised that if she had only said something he would have assumed her to be right. He was sure that she was debating something with herself. Right now. But what?

**O**

Mrs Weasley took pity on Percy and left with him around noon. The assorted Weasleys let out a collective breath. Ginny summed it up for all of them:

"What the hell is the matter with mum? Percy has always been a self-important ass, we have always ignored him. Why bother?"

"The bother was for Ronnie's sake."

"Yeah. He displayed initiative and quick thinking and mum promptly came around to check if he'd been imperiused."

"Sorry, Ron."

"Yeah, sorry Ron."

"We liked your story."

"We almost believe that you did not fall more than twice from Harry's broom."

Ron's ears turned red, red, red.

"You clowns will leave him alone. Ron is a Keeper, not a Beater or a Chaser. He does not need to race," snarled Ginny to his defense.

"The little ones are calling us clowns."

"You mean they noticed it Gred? After all that time?"

"I think they knew, Forge. They just had to learn the word."

Sirius, still in responsible-godfather-mode raised an eyebrow. Harry snickered: "Seriously, Padfoot, is the world ending? I need to order popcorn if it is."

"Not yet," Sirius said drily, "and probably not at all over this. Dumbledore introduced four wizards from the DoM before he finally let us go. They are going to examine the Goblet. The Ministry flooed a message that the ICW will question them later but that they are to proceed, for now. The only real question is what they will do about the champions, for as far as I can tell the tournament will take place. Karkaroff is the only one who has said what he wants and he wants to go ahead with the chosen champions – minus you – of course. I have no idea what the other two want, but Madame Maxime might simply be waiting for a word from the French Ministry. Dumbledore kept us all night in his office. Or Karkaroff did. I am not sure. It was too exhausting."

"So, this Goblet isn't as important as Percy said? Percy was simply overreacting," asked Ron. Percy had appeared genuinely afraid. Could he be that wrong?

"Yes and no. Historically it is exactly as important as your brother says. These days however it is no longer used for matters of state. It hasn't been used in over 130 years, I think. They even managed the trials after the last war without it, which is where I would have expected it. And unless they can pin last night's malfunction on something really singular they wont be using it any time soon."

Hermione spoke for the for the first time since ordering tea: "It can be used for trials? How did that work?"

"It was based on the archaic idea of letting Destiny decide. Something higher than us humans. Supposedly it tested the virtue, or the truthfulness of the accused himself. His or her ability to stand before Magic Itself."

"The Goblet represents Destiny," Harry said aghast. "And that used to happen until the last century?"

"Harry, it's like trial by divine judgement. Muggles used to do that, too," Hermione intevened quickly.

"Yes," hissed Harry. "When they wanted to mmmmph!" Hermione had clasped a hand over his mouth and was looking intently at him: "Don't say it Harry. I know what you mean, and I agree but that's because we are both muggle raised. Leave it."

Sirius looked down at them and sighed. Children! "I realise that it sounds frightening. Letting a magical artefact decide instead of considering the evidence. I wish I could say that it did not serve us well, but I wonder if the belief that it is possible to ascertain a person's essential truthfulness might not help. Every now and then."

"How was it different from Veritasserum," asked George.

"Veritasserum is supposed to guarantee that a person tells they truth as they know it," Hermione started.

"Then that Goblet is much better," said Fred. "You can obliviate yourself before taking Veritasserum, or have somebody manipulate your memories for you. Worse, you can only admit what your interrogators ask. If they are too stupid to put the correct questions then you are free, no matter what you did."

"This is why Veritasserum alone cannot decide a trial," Hermione started again, and was interrupted again:

"What is your problem with it anyway? What has magic to do with truthfulness? Muggles lie or are honest just as we are."

_And that's why I should think before I talk,_ Hermione thought.

"If I tell you that this is a complicated philosophical and scientific problem that I cannot answer at all, but could attempt to describe in week or so, could we leave it at that?"

"Science! What has electricity to do with anything," asked Ginny. "We are talking about people, not about dad's plug collection!"

_And she really thinks she knows what she's talking about because her father collects rubbish and she can pronounce the word,_ Harry realised.

Hermione took a deep breath: "Science is not about electricity or about plugs, or about technology at all. Science is way of thinking that leads to results such as technology."

"Science is what muggles have because they do not have magic, Hermione. Everyone knows that!"

"Magic comes out of the end of a wand, if you are a witch or wizard already. Science does not come out of anything, for muggles. They have to learn look at the world in a particular way and then put the right sort of question. This is a slow historical process, and it is changing the way people think altogether."

"And the result is that you do not believe in truthfulness," stated George.

"No, the result is that we are afraid that a person may be exceedingly evil and still truthful. Or may even be convinced that they are right."

"Then they are crazy," said Fred. "Like Bellatrix Lestrange. Sorry, Sirius."

"My dearest cousin would not want me to defend her and I would not dream of speaking for the murderous bitch. I will only say that calling her 'crazy' is a grave injustuce to many harmless people. Some of whom owe their current state to Bellatrix." said Sirius slowly. He would have preferred to say something good / wise / funny to defuse the situation, but what could it be? All he knew about muggles was what he had heard from Lily over fifteen years ago. And they had never talked about that sort of thing.

"I don't reckon that Mione wanted to say that muggles do not believe in honesty, " said Ron. Everyone turned to him in surprise. His ears reacted immediately, but he plunged on: "Look, it simply sounds strange for Harry and Mione, right? That was what she said. They are muggle raised. Muggles cannot use magic to decide if people are saying the truth or not. So they do it differently, and maybe the whole idea takes some time getting used to. That was all. Am I right Mione?"

"Thank you Ron. That is exactly what I said."

"And why did you keep Harry from speaking if that was all," demanded Ginny with suspicion.

"I was afraid that he would say something that you would understand wrong. Of course, seeing as I did not fare any better I could have left him alone," Hermione said contritely. "Sorry about that, Harry."

"So, muggles have tried something of the sort and it did not work because they have no magic and this is why you two were frightened when Sirius explained that this is what the Goblet did, originally?" Ginny was not letting the point go.

"Let's say that it made a lot of sense to us that it is no longer in use. Why isn't it, anyway," Harry asked, fighting to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"Oh, that's simple. That was probably people like Malfoy, who got it out of use because it was dangerous to them. I mean, look at our ministry nowadays."

_Malfoy almighty did it, _Hermione thought sourly. _Of course, having Mum and Dad blame anything and everything on Malfoy, be it the last war or Arthur's ridiculous salary might make you think that he can bend the entire world to his will._ She decided to try another angle: "Have you any idea who could have made a thing such as the Goblet? The only other artefact that sounds as if it worked similarly is the Sorting Hat, and that was made by Godric Gryffindor."

"DoM will know," Ginny said dismissively. "But don't expect them to tell you, Hermione. They do not share their secrets, not even with Hogwarts' brightest."

Ron laughed then and Hermione rolled her eyes. A retort would have been better but she could not think of any. Her – and Harry's – thoughts were swirling around the slow realisation that whoever had decided to bring the Goblet of Fire back now knew what they were doing. But for the snag yesterday. Maybe.

**O**

"Will you tell me what you were thinking during breakfast," Harry asked Hermione the moment he managed to get her to himself: "Because I know that something important was on your mind, and it was not the Goblet. That came later."

Hermione looked at him blankly: "What are you talking about?"

"Breakfast. You were thinking quite intently about something."

"Oh yes. That. Totally slipped my mind."

"I expect it did," Harry commented. He checked that they were alone and performed his favourite privacy spell: "So, what was it? Can you tell me?"

"Considering that you are the one sane person I know? It was not- Well, it might have been important. I don't know what to think, right now."

"Hermione," Harry said softly. "Take a deep breath. You do not have to fix everything, you know?"

"No, I don't. That's you. Okay, deep breath. You're right. Now. Last year I met somebody under very interesting circumstances. Not here in Hogwarts, but close. At that time I thought that it was Percy Weasley, but after observing Percy today I am no longer sure. Frankly, after that little display of medieval thinking right now I cannot imagine how it could have been anyone who is related to those people."

"Hey, Ron tried!"

Hermione's expression softened: "So he did. Amazing, isn't it?"

"Maybe. But I take it that your Mr. Mystery made a thoroughly contemporary impression."

Hermione couldn't help it, she cringed: _riddle, mystery. Same difference / Same accident, what else should he have called him? / Oh, get a fucking grip on yourself!_

"What did I say," Harry asked worried, for Hermione had cringed and paled. Apparently she had meant 'dangerous' when she had said 'interesting'. But Harry's question was not to be answered then. His spell prevented being overheard but not being noticed:

"Harry Potter. And Hermione Granger," said a voice neither of them recognised. A thick accent neither of them knew.

Viktor Krum. And Draco Malfoy.

**O**

'Viktor' joined them at the Gryffindor table for dinner. Draco, who had introduced them employing his best old-fashioned pure-blood manners – boggling Hermione's mind in the process – had rejoined the other Durmstrang students and Slytherin. Politely citing his past and declaring that he did not want to displease his former co-students.

_What the fuck_, Harry thought.

"Payback for addressing him publicly as 'cousin'", whispered Hermione who had obviously read his mind. Or simply thought the same thing at the same time. What else would anyone thought in this situation?

"You are not really cousins," Viktor asked confused. Upon reaching the table he had taken place next to Harry. Hermione had chosen the oposite bench. She had to watch this one closely. And watch she did. It was like watching ancient drama: two persons were speaking, the commenting / snickering / exclaiming chorus was providing the background / additional information. _Protagonist, deuteragonist. Chorus doubling as Harry's stream-of-consciousness. Why is it that the brave never know to shut the fuck up? Are there any Gryffindors in the diplomatic corps or do they only bring them out when they want to start a quick war?_

Harry, for example, was now saying: "Oh, no, we are are cousins. We had an antagonistic relationship while we were both at Hogwarts. That's all." And allof the the table was snickering and murmuring._ Howling_, for heaven's sake! Between Viktor's bad English and his quick perception of the other Gryffindors' reactions Harry's attempts at understatement were faring like a blade of grass before a buffalo. It did not matter if the buffalo was stomping or munching: "You were enemies?"

Harry stood his ground as if tact mattered: "We thought so. But we were not really thinking. I mean, we were eleven when we met here at Hogwarts. That was the first time I saw him."

Viktor ignored the attempt to make him enquire after the past: "But you are not friends?"

"We agreed to disagree on everything."

Hermione grinned. Viktor smiled politely at her. _Note to self: The seekers always watch all of the game. _

What did Harry and Viktor have in common? They both played Quidditch, albeit on different scales. Apparently there was more to Quidditch than two teams and two rowdy magpies. Seeker and team coordinate their actions. Their opponents seek to influence their tactics to their own advantage. And Ron said that points were counted differently in league games, whenever he could get a word in... she had only ever watched school games. _Ron lives eats and breathes Quidditch. And Ron is good at chess, _she added to herself_. Speaking of tactical thinking. ...I need to keep my thoughts to myself or I will never hear the end of this, if Ron ever finds out. Speaking of watching all of the game: did Fred shoot Viktor a very dirty look just now? _

Information was one thing, too much information in a given moment was another, and it was halfway to paranoia. Her paranoia needing a strong hand. Urgently. _Don't call it paranoia,_ she admonished herself. _That won't help. Call it self-importance. Remind yourself that it can't be all about you._

_Yes, that was a dirty look. But they did make fun about him before that._

_Nope, _Hermione thought._ They were making fun about Ron._

_True. So, what are you going to so about that?_

The Hall fell silent. Dumbledore had stood up. Dumbledore announced that the Tournament would proceed as planned, with one minor alteration: the Goblet of Fire, for whose normal functioning the Department of Misteries was vouching, had decided that the Tournament that they had planned was not possible for three young students. From the Goblet's nomination of a fourth year, Harry Potter they had infered that they were to choose younger assistants rather than name more champions. Or knaves for their three chose knights. (Pause for a smile and effect.) Of course, it would be up to the champions to choose their knaves. The assistants, being under age, would not participate directly. Instead the champions would receive timely warnings about the tasks (more than they had been supposed to have anyway) and they and their assistants would be given time and opportunity to decide on a course of action. His esteemed colleagues, Headmaster Karkaroff and Madame Maxime – and their champions – could choose assistants as they wished. As the Tournament was meant to promote international cooperation he had another proposal. The champions – and their professors – could be provided with lists of the four and fifth year students of Hogwarts and choose their assistants among them. Hogwarts, their host, would be honoured if their guests were to accept.

"Lists of the top students, is what he means," somebody said. Maybe, maybe not. And maybe_ – or not –_ Gryffindor table _– had turned as one –_ was eyeing one Hermione Jean Granger.

**..oOo..**

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><p><strong>Author's notes:<strong>

Cultures make funny noises when encountering other cultures.

I provided Kreacher with an outdated grammatical habit and two members of the Black family with lives. I do not recall reading anything about them other then they were blasted off the family tree. I am not sure about canon!Susan either, but here she is the daughter of the deceased Edgar Bones and lives with her aunt Amelia. Also, I made Madam Rosmerta serve Irish Breakfast tea by Fortnum & Mason; probably the one truly absurd element in my inventions.

Finally, a number of details in the older chapters were adjusted with a view to clarity and future events.


	12. A spinning top I

**Author's Notes:** The current chapter started slowly and exploded in size. I cut it into two parts out of fear for my β's sanity. I was listening to the Peer Gynt Suite while I wrote it, which always brings out the worst in me. Enjoy!

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 8.i, Wherein a Counterweight Continent rants<br>**_

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><p>Madam Maxime rises from her seat.<p>

Olympe Maxime cuts a very impressive figure. Over nine feet tall (without heels), olive of complexion and Roman of profile, she is one of very few people (alive) who could stand next to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, decorated hero and acting Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry without risk of being dwarfed. In any sense of the word.

Madame Maxime, Bauxbatons Headmistress for 37 years and running (with dignity), has her own list of achievements, string of titles and dedicated Chocolate Frog Card. (Rumour had it that the manufacturers had her card always put with the Dark Chocolate Frogs.) Having missed the window of opportunity to defeat a powerful Dark Wizard, she has dedicated her life and career to the systematic eradication of their pool of followers. At a time where an old and venerated European School of Magic had fallen into the hands of an acknowledged 'blood' supremacist, murderer and skilful evader of justice, Beauxbatons Academy is welcoming students from all backgrounds.

Karkaroff would explain his two-wizard-grandparents-minimum rule with oh-so practical concerns: the location of the school was a tightly kept secret of the Scandinavian states. It would hardly remain secret if they entrusted it to the families of every prospective student, no matter if the student enrolled or not. The Statute of Secrecy did not always cover Obliviations. Families unfamiliar with magical culture weren't happy to send their children to schools in undisclosed locations anyway. The dangers of the traditionally rough regime of Durmstrang for students with dependant personalities: children from non-magical families reached mental maturity much later than children from magical backgrounds, as reflected by muggle laws. The falling numbers of students with less than two magical parents during the respective reigns of his two predecessors...

His blessed two predecessors had headed the school for barely forty years between them. The same forty years that had seen not one but two Dark Wizards targeting muggleborns and not-exclusively-human wizards and witches. Madame Maxime had read all these arguments. In papers, essays, supposedly scholarly theses, legal documents and anonymous letters. She had taken much of it apart, in writ, speech and demonstrations of skill. Then she had stomped her challengers. (Some of them had ended being charmed by the experience. People _are_ strange.)

With Igor Karkaroff on the stage it was felt by many that Albus Dumbledore should have been Madame Maxime's natural ally. But Dumbledore was refusing to include wandless Magic in Hogwarts syllabus. It is true that wandless magic takes a lot of time and mental discipline, but Madame Maxime is convinced that knowing magic as something that only requires a good memory for incantations and precise wand movements, something that is not connected to will, intent and character, and only barely connected to the physical body; something that seems to exist in its own world within the world. Bound not by any sort of recognisable human logic. That view of magic she considers dangerous. Stupid ideas, like separating human magic and creature magic, or human witches and wizards from not-exactly-human ones begin here.

Dumbledore agrees that her ideas have merit. Like Karkaroff, he cites 'practical reasons' for not even offering as little as talks for the upper year. The Board of Governors being traditionalists, the strong British tradition of following Merlin... Tradition! Beauxbatons was _named_ for wand-based magic. Traditions can be adjusted.

Madame Maxime had been teaching for over four decades. As far as she is concerned her work was not easy, but fairly simple: provide clear requirements, positive stimulus and a pleasant atmosphere for the students. Keep a cool head in the crises that occur on an almost daily basis. They are teaching teenagers, after all. Provide support. React with humour, when her students feel inspired to _play_ with the strict rules (a natural reaction of curious and intelligent adolescents). Her professors encourage the development of humour (subtly); it is important for life. Make no mistake: Beaubatons is both strict and demanding. Students who fail to work, or to support each other to the best of their abilities find out how strict. Happily (sadly) those who do fail tended to have good reasons (bad problems) causing that; her school deals with it expertly. What else should it do? Madame Maxime herself values music and Chocolate Frogs. The admiration of her allies. The severed heads of her enemies on pikes. Small things.

She now stands up. Her students straighten, and not just them.

"The assistants to the champions will be chosen from the pool of fourth and fifth year Hogwarts students who wish to volunteer. Like the champions, they will be named by the Impartial Judge. The casting of the Spell of Discrimination and Election will be performed tomorrow in the subsidiary of Gringotts in Glasgow. It will be performed and witnessed by Goblin Elders and confirmed by two ICW wizards from uninvolved nations. This will allow us to proceed with the Tournament as per the original agreement between our three ministries."

Pause. As if waiting for something.

"We also have to respect the magical testimony and oath of Mr Harry Potter to the effect that he was entered against his wishes. The presence of an Impartial Judge will allow no less. We will accept his refusal to enter his name again and be honoured if, under the new conditions, he can overcome the mistrust he must feel and volunteers." Again she paused and seemed to listen; the great beast that was the Hall held its breath. "As we, your guests, cannot judge the merits of unknown students in such a short time, the assistants will be assigned to the three champions by the Impartial Judge. May the three teams do justice to the Magic that will choose them and give us a memorable New Triwizard Tournament."

She waits for the first students to start applauding before she sits down again.

'We' signifies the majestic plural, though the students do not need to know that. What she has stipulated right now are her own additions to the sweat deal the two men cooked up during that awful, awful night in Dumbledore's office. What was he thinking, keeping an envoy from communicating with her home ministry in a crisis! Dumbledore himself is on home ground (and an international political player in his own right) and Karkaroff has married into the right family (or something; his connections are nefarious, but obviously good). She however has rules to adhere to, and enemies back home who will not listen to reasons if she doesn't. Which is why last night she only said that that matter should be decided by the ICW, and little else. Had let the two of them get engrossed in their own game. Her ICW contacts have warned her about Dumbledore's backhand-heavy and simultaneously theatrical style. The announcement right now is a prime example: solemn air, unabashed use of authority (offering his students for the tournament without having asked them) and a minimum of explanations. Did Dumbledore expect his students to accept that? Was he going to have the heads of the houses speak on the matter later? Surely he was not going to leave it at that. Or was he? Well, she won't. And she can do solemn and magisterial with the best of them. Take the word and pretend that this was a two-part speech all along. And now the hall is applauding and neither Dumbledore nor Karkaroff have breathed a word of disagreement.

...because these two bastards cannot invoke Magic Itself when it suits them and then toss their own wishes into the backwash. And go on to ignore a magical oath taken in the presence of Magic! Trying to force the child into the Tournament through a back door when the object of invoking an Impartial Judge was to get rid of back doors. Oh, and if they want to invoke Magic Itself they would bloody well invoke all of it; not just Myrddin's wand waving. The Goblins will be delighted to remind wizards that _they_ can perform rituals like the Spell of Discrimination and Election without the days of preparation required by wand-wavers. Because her champion has veela heritage. She will not see the girl insulted by the disgusting and degrading nonsense that follows veela in the press. They'll dug out the old 'irrepressible veela instincts' and 'distinctive sexual nature' the moment Maxime said 'as an assistant we chose'. Or has the press signed an agreement on respect and proper manners? Oh, and friend Igor knows very well that Madame Maxime is being watched closely by friend and foe alike. That she cannot simply agree, or be implied to have agreed to new conditions. He has attempted to use that and Dumbledore did not stepped in. She is too old to think that that makes Dumbledore her enemy, and not young enough to believe that he might still be her friend. Oh, and when did the _British _DoM acquired the right to de facto decide _international_ matters? Dumbledore must have put his sycophants at the ICW to work while the three of them were closeted in that cabinet of death masks he calls an office, or this travesty would not have passed.

...no, Karkaroff did manage to put her to sleep last night with his droning (apparently his school does without full faculty meetings, or he would not have tried). He and Dumbledore had made a simple deal: Karkaroff would not hurt Dumbledore's championing of the Goblet. Which was what Dumbledore was doing. He wished to reinstate the use of Impartial Judges and started by reminding his compatriots of their existence. In return Dumbledore would let Igor have a shot at feeding Maxime to his friends (her political enemies) in France. ...there is more to this, of course. She noticed the other two 'hostages'. She'll have to ask the French embassy who they were, but she guesses that their presence had not been accidental. The ambassador will be able to tell her.

**~._.~**

Harry and Hermione are applauding wildly. Everyone is. They have their Tournament back, not that they'd cared about it before. A crisis has been averted which no-one but a select few really understands. Impressive people are delivering speeches. Everyone understands speeches. And, weirdly, everyone knows that something great has been achieved. Even if no-one is sure what.

"Impressive," Viktor says as the tumult finally starts ending. "Your Dumbledore as well. Only our headmaster looks pale."

_Interesting choice of words_, Hermione thinks.

"Well, I am so glad that I heard that," she says cheerfully. "'We dare not ignore an magical oath in the presence of an impartial judge'. These were the first two hints as to the workings of this thing that anyone had mentioned since it was introduced." She smiles brightly at Ron. "You were right Ron, it sounds absolutely fascinating. I wonder if she will talk to me about it some time." _I could thank her for beating a bludger away from me. Oh look, a Quidditch metaphor. I am a real witch!_

"I think I'll go the library." She yawns heartily. Harry starts laughing. Viktor smiles. She really has to get away from these two.

"Hermione, why don't I come with you and help you choose a really big book or two? For you to take to your bed, so that you can sleep peacefully. When did you get up today anyway?"

Oh! She has had no chance to tell Harry about _last night_ yet. Unbelievable!

"Around dawn." She yawns again: "Sorry Viktor, Harry. I'd love to talk to you tomorrow, if you feel like it. After I've gone to bed and died and stayed dead for ten hours or so. Night, Ron." Impulsively, she reaches across the table and ruffles Harry's hair. Then she leaves, apparently too tired and too happy to care about the stares that follow her. Thinks Harry, who saw and cares. Some of the expressions would have disrupted her badly needed sleep. He sighs.

"We are going to Glasgow tomorrow. I did not see the casting of the spells the first time around. It is going to be interesting," Viktor muses.

Harry is rather more interested in something else: "Viktor, will Draco be allowed to volunteer? He's one of you now, of course, but he is here and he is the right age."

"Draco came to Britain because he and I are working on a complicated potion. A long-term project. We are used to working together, he and I. Maybe the Goblet will accept him. Of course," he now addresses the table as a whole, seeing as they are all listening in anyway, "I am grateful for all of you who will be volunteering. Without you we would not have this Tournament that means so much to all our governments. I must go now. Good night." And he walks away in that flat-footed/stiff gait that Harry noticed at the World Cup.

"If Vicky already has an assistant that leaves Cedric and the French bird. I am so in," says somebody or the other.

"And what makes you think that Malfoy will be deemed worthy to assist," asks Ginny crossly.

"Do you think that the assistants get a share of the price or just a part of the glory" Harry wonders.

Ginny giggles: "Oh Harry! It's 'knaves', not assistants! The champions are knights, not shop girls!"

"I hope you are wrong, because I don't think that a knight can be another knight's knave. Meaning you, Sir Ronald. In my defence, I really had no idea that they would spring this on us," Harry teases Ron.

There were no other words for it: Ron smirks magnanimously: "I'd like to go over to the Puffs and see what Cedric thinks about all this. What do you think?"

"Why not? Let's go interview the one and only Hogwarts champion."

**..'o | o'..**

Meanwhile, Hermione Jean Granger is bursting with happiness: _It worked, it worked, it worked, it is working!_ She faded from view in the middle of the Great Hall, with a number of people looking directly at her. _And no-one realised that! They all believed firmly that she had simply walked away!_

_Breathe, _she admonishes herself. _They told you it would work, they told you how to it, they even tried to explain why it can work. _She had turned around immediately and caught students turning back to each other and starting to talk about other things. She has also caught Ginny Weasley's lingering look. A dirty look. Maybe. Hermione couldn't care less. She's been busy returning to the table and sitting down opposite Harry and Viktor, see if they would react to her presence. Which they didn't. It was as if she was not been there at all. And that is marvellous! And if the students still sitting at the table hadn't heard her now – squeak! – they weren't going to hear her at all. She was ridiculously afraid that her new trick would work on vision, but not on hearing. '_Fade from attention', They had said, not 'fade from view'. Fade from the attention of humans, mostly-humans and ghosts. _With all that to think about,who cares about Ginny? Hermione doesn't. She has already considered and narrowed the possible reasons for that glance down to three: Hermione ruffling Harry's hair in public just then, or Hermione having been displeased with the notion of a magical judge earlier and implying that wizards were medieval for using one, or both. Since all of three are silly reasons, Hermione feels justified in dismissing Ginny from her thoughts._ Dismiss anything unpleasant, really. How is she supposed to think about Ginny when she has just done it? Just as They said._

'They' being something-or-the-other connected to Hogwarts castle. Something-or-the-other that is also a part of her own brain, or she would not be dreaming about it. Hermione refuses to accept the idea that completely disconnected entities might be able to use another person's brain like that (out of sheer instinct to preserve her remaining sanity). She accepts the existence of connections. Of perception and communication that is easier to handle in a dream than while awake, for whatever reason. Well, until today. Or last night, the early hours, whatever! 'They'. She does not have an adequate name and does not want to use an inadequate one. She does not want to think about names at all, really, _though maybe I should, a conscious exercise in free association, see where it would lead?_ Did it not already lead her to spontaneously call whatever-that-was 'Them'? Indicating bafflement and more than a little respect on her side? 'They' had explained that this new ...ability will hide her from the way humans recognised other humans as part of their species; and for that very same reason will make her more visible to other species; beings that would normally ignore humans. She told Them that she is going to use it as often as possible, see who will stop for a chat. 'They' chuckled and told her to be prepared for very original shows of curiosity and good-will.

_As long as everyone else doesn't mind me,_ Hermione thinks. _Because _I _am going to make a fool of myself a thousand times over. Species existing and being around us and simply ignoring us! What a concept! _Then, for good measure, Hermione pinches herself: it feels as it always did. She is here, awake, not dreaming. And yet no-one is seeing her. Due to an ability she already had, not a skill that she picked up, according to 'Them'. 'They' have told her that 'They' are what often happens when an instrument that focuses magic is used for long enough a period of time, or with a certain intensity: it develops character. Wizards speak routinely about the quirks of magical instruments. The 'style' attributed to the wands and staffs of powerful magicians. The temperament of enchanted castles... Hogwarts is not an instrument in the strict sense of the word. It does not draw more ambient magic than any other building does; it just houses students, professors, and all their activities. But that is the point, really: it had had young _witches and wizards running through its rooms like blood running through veins for some time now, you know. Almost two minutes! _

The idea that _her_ blood cells might have individual lives boggles Hermione's mind. Better concentrate on something else. Like putting her newly discovered ability to use, but where? Harry and Ron are talking to Susan and Cedric. This discussion interests her, but she can simply ask her friends about it tomorrow. _She cannot eavesdrop on friends!_ (She is aware that her morals are more than a little random, right now. She stuffs that awareness into a box and sits on it.) Dumbledore and the other two Headmasters? No-o. She does not feel confident enough to go anywhere near Dumbledore, who is not regarded as a great wizard for nothing... his easy manner around 'mostly-humans' that are considered dangerous indicates familiarity. He simply knows better than to be afraid. He certainly knows how to ruthlessly go after what he wants. A big heart her saddle-sore behind! How dare he say that the Goblet "chose Harry as an indication"? Glossing over the fact that Harry's name was submitted without Harry's knowledge or agreement. What sort of little god is that Goblet supposed to be? Or did the headmaster just neglect to mention that someone submitted the names of all Hogwarts students, just in case? As far as Hermione is concerned, Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard around, and therefore her prime suspect in this case.

_Breathe, _she reminds herself. _Try to be calm. _She has gone from insane happiness directly to fury, changing the emotion but keeping the level of intensity. _That won't do. Concentrate on the stones beneath your feet. Breathe. Let. Go. _She's read about this technique in one of Harry's shadier muggle books. It works like a charm, of course. Just to gall her.

_Breathe! You know, eavesdropping on someone would distract ...me. _But not on Dumbledore, because he is too dangerous. Not Snape and Karkaroff, either, because they ...just left together? How intri-

_Not Snape or Karkaroff! They do not need to perceive you to be dangerous. They are perfectly capable of firing deadly hexes into an empty room because they _thought_ they felt something! You will be sorry when you get us killed! We are not the only one with a brain here, and certainly not the one with all the experience._

_Draco and Viktor, then? From a safe distance? _

_Yes!_

_Good to know that we are both curious, Hermione snorted._

_There's only one of us, darling._

**~ó_Ó~**

"You know something about Weasel."

"Weasley, Viktor. Try it again."

"Wee-slee. Better?"

"Address him as 'Ron'. His name is Ronald Weasley, but the only time he hears that is when his mother sends howlers."

"Disgusting habit. Ron. You must know something about Ron. He must be good in something."

"...he loves Quidditch, but there haven't been any free spots yet in his house team. So I do not know if he can actually play."

(Hermione is glad she was unnoticeable. She does not want to be noticed when she has just lost control of her jaw.)

"What else?"

"He is very territorial around his friends. That came out wrong. He tried to hex me when I insulted Granger during second year. Wasn't his fault it did not work. And he never complained about being dragged along in Potter's insane adventures."

"Loyalty," Viktor says approvingly. "There must be more, I believe."

"I think he plays chess a lot. And he must- I don't remember well. But there was something about him once winning a game when it really mattered."

"I am not bad at chess," Viktor muses. "That could help."

"Viktor, you get eaten and spit out with disgust every time you play against your Quidditch trainer."

_Nice picture._

"My trainer is very good. I do not need to win. I need something to talk about."

Draco sighs: "If I'd ever known that I would be advising people on how to approach Potter and his friends-"

"You would have talked to them in a civil manner while you still could."

Draco grinned. The scar that slashed the left side of his face is silvery. Healing is easily the most impressive branch of magic there is. Scars tend to mean that the hurt person had been too far away from help and had not been able to perform a third-year spell; alternatively, that they were hurt with magical means that complicated treatment. Durmstrang is supposed to be rough, but the other students do not sport that kind of facial adornment. Then again, these students have been selected as possible champions. Maybe because they have (almost) gotten through their notorious school without scars? Would parents send their offspring to such a school? The Durmstrang students do not look particularly brutal, though. Fit, yes. Brutal, no.

'Do not interpret ahead of your data' is one of those fundamental principles she still struggles to embrace. _Books_, she thinks. _Data in books is not random (or so one hopes). It is there because it 'belongs together'. Things you notice, however, may or may not be connected. You cannot read reality like a book. But you can damn well wonder why people are conspiring in order to approach you. So what do I know? Durmstrang students duel a lot. Only Draco has a scar. The Draco I knew was a spoilt pest who thought nothing of buying himself a position in a Quidditch_ _team. _Put that way, it is highly unlikely that anybody but Draco is responsible for the state of his face. Maybe he deserves it. But it must have been such a gruesome looking wound.

"I might have. They were- They were interesting. But back then I was not thinking, I was repeating things my father had told me."

And that is an admission she would never have expected to hear. But, Hermione realises, Draco is making that admission to am ally, not to a former foe. As far as Draco knows. But he is making it. _Does that mean you are now thinking for yourself, I wonder? Or are you just sucking up? Viktor is famous and popular, isn't he? _As she is staring transfixed at Draco, his left hand rises to touch his scar absent-mindedly.

And Viktor tilts his head: "It looks absolutely convincing. Well done."

Draco's lips curl: "Good old Alphard Black. That small pamphlet of his is still better than most books."

_What?_

"About your m-" Viktor starts saying, but is interrupted in a flash: "No! Not here! Don't even think about it," Draco hisses, and in this moment, grey eyes flashing and face like stone he looks both scary and scared. "Never in here."

"My shields are good, Draco. You said so yourself."

"The best defence is not being there. _You_ say so yourself, Vicky." He looks surreptitiously for listeners: "You do not understand this place, Viktor. Durmstrang is hard, but they respect their students' privacy. They encourage us to learn being alone. Hogwarts is all-" He shakes his head in frustration. "Hogwarts is different. Never forget that."

Viktor picks up his golden goblet: "How could I forget?" He sighs: "Glasgow will be interesting. Will they allow us to see the city? I was there briefly for quarter finals."

"Hardly. You'll have to see it on your own someday."

_There's something to be said for morals after all,_ Hermione muses baffled. _You do not acquire snippets of information that will eat your brain if you try to figure them out. Well, let this be my just punishment: what do I think that I can tell from what I heard? _

Draco and Viktor are supportive of each other – trusted each other? Draco and Viktor are showing interest in Harry Potter and his closest friends. All three of them. (Should she warn the boys, and if yes, then how?) Draco and Viktor dislike both Dumbledore and Karkaroff. Draco has changed a lot. His tactics, if not himself. And something is bothering Draco deeply, something beginning with 'm'.

Yes, there is something to be said for morals.

**`3_e**

Madame Maxime, back in her private rooms in the blue coach, settles in an oversized baroque chair. She is holding a glass of the single malt that has been served to her giant horses, but is not drinking it. Her students have been send to bed and she would like to fall into her own; but for a tingling sense of anticipation.

Dumbledore's professors did not really allow their students to not volunteer. The deputy headmistress had had the last word. In clipped, almost harsh tones she had announced that she expected all students to offer their assistance for this important event. It would be a shame for Hogwarts, she had said, if the students, especially the top students, were not to volunteer simply because they would be volunteering to become assistants and not champions. Which had been an excellent direction into which to spin that particular top, Madame Maxime has to admit. Disgusted as she is by the sort pressure the woman is using. Tell them that not volunteering would reflect negatively on their characters, and by extension on their school. The woman had gone on, droning how all Hogwarts students were expected to show all Hogwarts virtues, and not to let their guests and their school down. Why not tell them to grit their teeth and think of England while she was at it? And so it's back to the Impartial Judge. What the hell is wrong with calling it by its proper name, anyway? It is an Impartial Judge. A particular type of magic, and it was used according to specific rules. The rules were part of the usage. That's what a ritual is. That particular goblet (old and fine though it is) was just the temporary vessel. But somehow the goblet is important in itself. A symbol. What is it with these people and their symbols, anyway? Are they planning to fill this _thing_ with the blood of their saviour? (Madame Maxime is reasonably well versed in muggle theologies. She has to understand her students' backgrounds. She wishes she had never thought the words 'symbol' and 'saviour'. Or that they did not fit with her darkest suspicions in such a horrible way.) Albus is training his successor, was he? Sacrificing everything that stands in his way? Albus is known for his love of symbols. Well, they do work well with the public. But Albus is very pragmatic, too, always has been, in her opinion. His agreement with Karkaroff shows clearly that he wanted the participation of one Harry Potter, and of one particular other Hogwarts student. He wanted this student to compete by proxy with 'his' Harry Potter. An enemy chosen for further reference. Alternatively, a friend of Potter's he needed to alienate.

Her glass is still mostly full. 'Sampling the scotch for the horses' is an end-of-day-ritual for good days. Not for I-did-what-I-could-days. Certainly not or when she's already feeling sick with everything. (The other reason for that rule are her mother's giant genes. No tolerance for alcohol. None.) Once again she shakes herself out of the dark mood that is threatening to overcome her. She does that by concentrating on practical thoughts, things she can, or has to do. Like that she really needs to meet with people from the French embassy, as soon as possible. There is still the matter of the identities of the two 'hostages' who had spend the night with them in Dumbledore's office. Their presence might mean something important. They did not meant anything to her, but it is possible that they had been 'intended' for Karkaroff. She really has to know how much Dumbledore is prepared to tolerate from Karkaroff. Ideally she will even find out why. How,_ how_ could that man become a headmaster? How far do his contacts go? How could anyone have entrusted children to that man? Seeing all this: plans, goals, alliances, intrigues. That does not require a brain, it only requires experience. And experience can mislead people. Make them see something old when they should have seen something new. She will wait and see. Dumbledore and Karkaroff have played along tonight, let her have her terms. They must know that they would have lost their Tournament otherwise, because Maxime and her students would have left. As per the rules of the original agreement. And leave the British DoM explain how their blessed tea cup is still working after that. She has never seen anything like that before, but if that firebird yesterday was not the spell departing from the vessel then she is a nothing but a girl with big bones. Those reverberations! Dumbledore and Karkaroff did not even notice them, yet they were threatening to burst her eardrums for most of the night! Were the very rocks of the castle throwing a party? She has no way to investigate that and she's not going to ask about them. She does not trust the British DoM (or any DoM, for that matter. Too much power, too little check) but it is entirely possible that it was something she had perceived because of her particular heritage. Especially considering that no-one else (four people in that office, other than her) batted an eyelid when she had been hard-pressed to not grit her her teeth. The reverberations had originated with the rocks. She was sure about that. She did not work much with stone and crystals as mediums, it was a discipline that required a lot of time and solitude. But she had an affinity towards them (maybe one day. Retirement, not that she could actually imagine retiring)... Hogwarts had been half sculpted out of the underlying rock, half build with stones. Standard magical castle building procedure. As to her particular heritage... giants have stories about their roots. Their own stories, not the stories of humans. Some stories say that they were rocks that had become enamoured with the swirl of time and life around them and had wished to experience it themselves. From the inside, so to say. She finds that hard to imagine, but she likes it. It reminds her of stories of beautiful water-spirits ensnaring humans and drawing them into their lairs. Her father as a siren, now that's a picture. Her fully human half-siblings, all much older, would assure her that he had been as good looking as he had been eccentric (considerably so). That did not explain her mother, and her mother's choice of a puny human as a mate, of course... No, poor papa as an elderly (well-aged) siren made more sense altogether... well, less no-sense-at-all... she is surely getting old if the simple presence of whisky makes her reminisce about her parents. Whatever. It's been a long night and day. Her hands are bound in such a way as to forbid most wand movement. But she's good with wandless magic. Better than most.

Madame Maxime fixes her glass with a stare that would have a human beg for mercy. The whisky evaporates. Friend Igor wants the Tournament quite urgently. Whatever his current goals are, he needs new international allies for them. To that end he wants to appear as the 'man behind Viktor Krum', this hugely popular young athlete, and he cannot wait for the next World Cup. Who knows what Karkarrof might still want. He's being watched by better experts than herself. Though they expect her to contribute. To give her best and cooperate to the best of her abilities. They would expect that. She has taught many of them herself.

**..O**

* * *

><p><strong>Two-magical-grandparents-minimum: <strong> a rule that ensures that the children of two muggleborns (as well as muggleborns themselves) cannot attend Durmstrang. Children of muggle-and-wizarding parentage are allowed because such couples tend to live in the magical world, whereas muggleborn couples have been known to prefer life as muggles-with-wands.


	13. A spinning top II

**_Chapter 8ii,_**

**_Wherein many people talk  
><em>**

**_And some die_**

* * *

><p><em>What now<em>, Hermione wonders? She is sitting on her bed but is still 'unnoticeable'. Her dorm mates are in their own beds. None of them said a word about her, indicating – hopefully – that they were not wondering where she was. Parvati even said 'Good night, all.' Indicating that she did not think she was alone with Lavender. Again, hopefully.

_Yes, I have checked and double checked. It really works._

Tomorrow they'd go to Glasgow and submit their names to the Goblet of Fire. Or else. Minerva McGonagall, having demonstrated her tendency to volunteer other people (it was not meant to be transitive, damn it!) was now a distant second suspect in the matter of Harry Potter vs. GoF. Hermione admitted that McGonagall's speech had spared her a nerve-wrecking decision making process. She was not grateful.

Will she be able to sleep while 'spelled', should she try it out ...no, first she has to find out how Parv and Lavender will react to noticing her again in the morning. Yes. She has not tested 'reappearing' in the Great Hall, obviously. Having made up her mind now (intent being the basis of all known magic. Her newly discovered skill is no exception) she feels it again, the tell-tale sensation of being submerged in warm sparkling water, yet somehow being able to breath. Water so warm and bubbly against her skin...the first time she had simply been pushed into this sensation.

_How does a disembodied presence / the other user of a cognitive interface push one?_ ...the 'water' was so very pleasant; a mental button, sure, but one that she really had to find._ The whole sensation points to a fundamental difference between usual, aka wand-assisted magic and-_

Right now it was sleep-inducing and a nice way to end such a very strange day.

**)_0)**

In one night the Goblins of Glasgow had 'build' the necessary Room for the ritual and arranged the presence of the required Elders and foreign human wizards with ICW clearing. They had also notified the French and Scandinavian embassies (all four of them) and notified the British MoM. They were fast, efficient and mindful of details. (Or rigorous, pedantic and redundant.) The humans arrived in the usual flying coaches of Hogwarts and were shushed into the Room. That room looked like a small circular crystal cave, light shining faintly through the glacial green. As a matter of fact it was an air bubble in a currently frozen section of the River Clyde. The perfect room for the invocation of magical Fire. Thankfully, most witches and wizards are atmospherically challenged. The current occupants were busy thinking about more important things than the humour of the Goblins. One of the two human witnesses from uninvolved countries was a military attaché, irritated at missing his daughter's birthday and even more irritated about being dragged in this affair: he was the sort of person who _detested_ events without proper what-if planning (his daughter's birthday's what-if-planning was not only extensive, it was downright _adequate_).

The second witness was an elderly visiting scholar whom the Goblins had located at a congress in Newcastle. He was delighted with the opportunity to witness a Goblin Low (read 'bloodless') Ritual. As a scholar he was interested in the choreography of High Rituals. As a now admittedly elderly gentleman he knew to be mindful of his nowadays irritable tummy.

The ritual was mostly over with the assistants having been named and assigned to champions and the elders preparing to lift the spell from the vessel when that mildly mannered person began to shake. When the witnesses were called to swear that they had seen and heard and had been in their right minds during the entire procedure, the military attaché decided that he had better support his unfortunately sensitive colleague ("Civilians!"). Upon being unexpectedly touched the man lost it and started screaming in Ancient High Gobbledegook; a language that presents willing human students with the interesting psychological barrier of sounding like the noises produced by the newly exposed windpipe of a freshly severed head.

The person who translated the gurgling for Hermione was the impossibly beautiful Fleur Delacour. The champion whom she would be assisting. Fleur's Gobbledegook was not very good – according to Fleur – but she could tell her that the – _gurgling_ – screaming man was – _dying horribly_ – asking for Truth and Judgement in a matter of Family Honour.

_So, Sirius was wrong,_ Hermione – _clutched her security blanket_ – reflected. _Imparting Judgement in matters of life and death is not _one_ function of the Impartial Judge, it is the original function. Everything else came later. Makes sense, of course. _

"He is not sympathetic, that man," Fleur said. "Madame does not trust him."

_Karkaroff, who was loudly abusing everyone present._ "And you trust her that much," Hermione murmured, remembering the time she had still trusted her own professors like that.

"Absolutely. She is the most caring and attentive and good teacher one can imagine."

_You make me almost wish my parents had made me switch to your school last summer_, Hermione thought wistfully. _K__arkaroff was really loud._ She liked being able to trust the people she was supposed to trust. _Why did everyone have to scream?_ She remembered not being paranoid. It had been nice_ ...that noise! Warm bubbles, turning hot; not enough air. That. Noise._

"Knave one to knave two. Knave one, can you hear me? Hermione, look at me please!" _Harry? What's the matter?_

"Hermione, are you all right?"_ Susan? And Cedric too?_

"Hello there, Hufflepuff dream team," Hermione said faintly. Why were they all looking at her?

"You should let her sit somewhere. She is sensitive," said Viktor. "Go ask a Goblin to bring a seat for her. We cannot do magic in this room." Harry _flew_ to the closest Goblin.

"That never happened before," Hermione protests feebly. She_ would_ choose the moment she had been chosen to assist a participant of a highly dangerous tournament to faint. Wonderful. Fleur is probably congratulating herself on her luck. She is also ...supporting Hermione? Fleur is.

_ All alone?_

_Well. Yes._

"Of course it hasn't," Fleur says soothingly. "Close your eyes now. It will help."

_Not eyes. It's the noise._ Hermione shuts her ears. She feels better at once. The room is still chaotic, _everyone moving way too fast, too many people in one place, terrible pressure – _But at least she no longer has to hear all that. In orfer to regain her balamce she looks at something simple and static. She looks at her own feet, barely protruding from under her plain black school robes. Her muggle winter boots; leather, not dragon hide. Standing on the frozen water. Frozen. Orderly. She takes a deep breath and catches a faint odour of... sea water? Some plant and salt. Who could have known that salt smelled that good? Someone pushes a chair under her behind and Fleur eases her into it. How strong is she, for heaven's sake,_ the oversized raptor_? _Veela. Raptor. Right._

"I am sorry," Hermione says embarassed. "I am more robust than that, as a rule." Her own voice sounds funny, with her ears still blocked. She lowers her hands. Sitting down helped: "Are they really taking Karkaroff away? Can they just do that?"

As one the small group turned to Viktor who shrugs, and looks ablolutely not like Fleur when as he does that: "They must, under the circumstances. The Scandinavian Embassies will send a new supervisor for us Durmstrang students and the tournament will proceed as planned." Avoiding to voice an opinion or doubt; but if this is serious for the Goblins it is probably better to not say anything that might be construed as criticism.

"Why is he asking for Judgement," Harry asks Fleur. " Did you understand that?"

Fleur hesitates.

"I should like to know that as well," says Viktor. "My headmaster is screaming that it was ruled to be an accident and that someone or the other was a tottery old man."

"The accuser said that his brother would never have worked on a dangerous potion while inebriated. Or would never have let himself become inebriated from working on a potion. I am not sure which one."

Viktor's face acquires a certain look and Hermione remembers that he does not like his headmaster: "I believe that Karkaroff's predecessor at Durmstrang was a renowned potions master who is said to have died in a lab accident."

They fall silent. Karkaroff is now shouting at Dumbledore, who is trying to reason with him. And the fiery archaeopteryx rises again.

**)o_o(**

Madame Maxime is pleased. Then again, she is not. Her many apprehensions regarding Karkaroff's presence and goals have been resolved. But the way they were resolved was a little drastic.

True, she's very pleased that the Danish cultural attaché to Britain has taken over as Head of the Durmstrang contingent at Hogwarts. The envoy from the French embassy has assured her that the man, despite being the scion of a very old family indeed, does not share Karkaroff's political views and is both pleasant and affable ("It will be better to not discuss opera with him, however"). Albus Dumbledore on the other hand left Glasgow directly for a meeting with the British Minister of Magic. Urgent sessions of the Wizengamot and the ICW are expected to follow. Minerva McGonagall is now Acting Headmistress. Upon learning what_ other_ roles that lady fulfils Madame Maxime asked _very nicely_ if McGonagall has a twin or two.

Her embassy-assigned informant (aka dear Éloïse, Bauxbatons class of '74) is currently telling her that during the original negotiations Karkaroff had strongly resisted the idea of his champion being chosen by someone other than himself. Madame Maxime had resisted as well, stating on several occasions that she is not fond of magical apparatus doing her thinking for her. Those statements had been public and many people were amused when she was overruled; but the fact that the Goblet had become part of the agreement despite the resistance of two of the three involved headmasters has confirmed her suspicions that Albus Dumbledore is championing the re-introduction of magical justice and Ritual High Magic.

"Considering the messy and unsatisfying outcome of the so-called trials after their last war that makes a lot of sense," says Éloïse. "It is a sad state of affairs, and the British have to do something. Especially after the events of last year thoroughly reminded everyone just how bad it can get."

Éloïse proceeds to enlighten her about these events and is interested to learn that one of the protagonists had been in Dumbledore's office the night before. In turn Madame Maxime is terribly interested to learn that the current Professor of DADA at Hogwarts is the former Auror who caught Karkaroff back then. So Dumbledore had been worried about Karkaroff's politics, too? Well, that's a relief. Neither witch can make head or tale of the presence of one Molly Weasley. Éloïse will enquire.

"I would say that I understand Dumbledore's politics but I don't. Pragmatically speaking, that is. I acknowledge the problem but the solution he proposes is very drastic indeed. Has he lost the belief that their legal system can be cleansed of corruption or is he preparing for new trouble of that sort?"

"That is an interesting question indeed, Madame. Having observed him closely during the last couple of days, what do you think more likely?"

"It has been too short a time, and the events were too unusual. I believe he was as disturbed by the turn of events as everyone else. Other than that I can only say that he shows a sort of parental disregard for others."

"Albus Dumbledore is very old," Éloïse says tactfully.

"Certainly. But that does not make everyone else very young. I wonder if he has been a teacher for too long." Madame Maxime sighs: "If I did not know that I had nothing to do with it I would suspect myself of having arranged the presence of that scholar at Gringotts. I cannot stress how relieved I am that my champion and her muggleborn assistant will be safe from that Death Eater scum."

Éloïse smiles fondly. Madame Maxime´s protective mode could shame a new mother bear. Then again, Madame is a teacher, not just a school administrator. It is right that her protective instincts should be ...functional: "Ah, yes, Mademoiselle Delacour. Do you want us to enquire about the assistant?"

"No, funnily enough I know the girl. Her parents considered pulling her out of Hogwarts and came to see me last summer. In the end they decided to let her stay with her friends. A pity, for she is a gifted student."

"Who knows, Madame? After this year she will have friends at Beauxbatons, too."

"True. On a different matter, Éloïse: I should like to meet with your brother at his earliest convenience. I witnessed an interesting phenomenon from his field of expertise and I want his opinion."

Éloïse blushes: "He is currently in a period of silent meditation on granite. I think it will last a little, but I will let him know the next time he talks to anyone." Seeing her former teacher's understanding expression she blushes a little more. Stone-focused magic comes with a certain notoriety and _her_ brother has to be one of those who keep that notoriety alive.

"I said at his earliest convenience. I am always glad to hear that our alumni do good work but granite could be said to be a little inconsiderate. Give my regards to your mother, please." (aka _dearest_ Sophie, Beauxbatons class of 1947)

**~_!**

"So, Potter and you will be assisting the foreign champions," Cormac McLaggen tells the Gryffindor Common Room. As a fifth year he was at Gringotts. And McGonagall announced the results anyway. Which means that his remark is definitely not a question.

"Harry and I were chosen magical object to do just that. Then that object proceeded to eat Igor Karkaroff and now Professor Dumbledore is at an urgent ICW meeting which we hope he will able to leave before the year is over. Professor Mcgonagall just told the entire school. You must have heard her."

Karkaroff's fiery demise had nothing to do with anything, of course. It's just that Hermione could not get it out of her mind.

"But you and Harry will be assisting Cedric Diggory's opponents."

McLaggen appears to have no problems with the memories, but he was not chosen and had therefore stood considerably further away from the Goblet when- Whatever. Remind him of the obvious: "We are magically bound to do so."

"Bound by the Goblet of Fire. But you already beat that before, didn't you?"

"Excuse me, where have you been the last few days? Professor Dumbledore and four wizards from the DoM said that the Goblet works and simply objected to let the champions fend for themselves. An entire delegation of Goblins and wizards did not save Igor Karkaroff today and we 'beat it'?"

"I see you've found respect for the Goblet of Fire after all," observes Ginny.

"I saw it eat a grown man," Hermione says testily. Ginny, a third year, was not at Gringotts at all and is also too robust to be bothered by mere stories.

"And lost your own appetite in the process," Ginny teases. "You did not touch lunch, I saw it. Mum will be livid if you loose any more weight, you know. She told me to take care of you."

Hermione did not touch her lunch because she could not. She is hungry and in no mood to be teased. And what's wrong with her weight? She's exercising a lot! Her own mother does not complained, does she? Thankfully her dorm mates notice and come to the rescue. Ginny's rescue, that is.

"There is nothing wrong with an athletic figure," states Lavender the Curvy.

"But Hermione isn't athletic," Ginny points out. "She's not interested in Quidditch at all."

"Fleur is very athletic and she does not play Quidditch either," Parvati says haughtily. "She told us when we talked to her. After lunch."

Hermione introduced her friends, obviously. It was a short but inspiring discussion for the two of them. Parvati and Lavender are figure-conscious; they consider themselves reasonable in that. Who wants to end looking like Ginny's mother? Of course, the comment about Fleur draws the few remaining occupants of the Gryffindor Common Room who weren't already listening in to the group.

"Is she? What does she do," Cormac asks with heightened interest.

"I suggest you ask her yourself," sniffs Lavender who does not like McLaggen at all. (She feels that people who are vainer than she is are overdoing it.)

"Fleur was chosen between all eligible pupils of her school to compete in a very dangerous Tournament," Hermione vainly tries to remind her house mates. "That did not happen because she is-"

"Stunning," George sighs out of no-where.

"Magnificent," moans Fred.

_Well, there was no point denying that. _"Thank you. I was going to say 'fabulous', but I suppose that's girl-speak for you."

"And where did you learn girl-speak, oh bookworm," teased George. _Was that supposed to be nice teasing?_

"She read about it," answers Fred in her stead. "She has a hidden stash of _Witch Weekly_ under her pillow."

If that is supposed to be teasing they are doing it wrong, Lavender and Parvati think alarmed: "And when did you two get access to our dorms and look under our pillows," Parvati snapps aggressively. (She does not read that rag! No self-respecting young witch touches it! Teen Witch yes, it has usefull cosmetic spells and new robes styles. WW contains nothing but mean gossip!)

"But you are all basically saying that Fleur is hot and clever and athletic. Then what does she need Hermione for," Ginny asks with a wide g_oblin smile._

Ron thinks this has gone too far already. What the hell is wrong with everybody today: "Viktor Krum is a world class seeker. What does he need Harry for. This interrogation is ridiculous. Dumbledore offered our help for this Tournament and McGonagall admonished us to honour our school by doing our best, regardless of who we will be assisting."

Obviously, the twins will not be berated by their one younger brother: "Ah, Sir Ronald, but you will not be assisting anyone, will you?"

Ron's ears reddened and Lavender comes to the rescue again: "Nor will you two. Apparently the Goblet does not trust one of you to do something alone, did it?"

"It couldn't name FredGeorge, the person with two bodies and half a brain," sneers Parvati.

Fred and George laugh and move close enough to touch at the hips: "It should have. We are sexy," they cry in unison, whereupon most people burst into laughter.

And everything is well. Not. Hermione needs to get out of here: "Ron, where is Harry? No, the laughter is not making her feel better. It's slightly forced (maybe). And she os still too shocked to deal with so much noise (certainly).

"He told me he would meet you at the library. Something about Thunder and Lightening."

_And there was bright light, and the angels all sang together: _"Really," Hermione squeaks happily. "Where did he find it?"

Ron is incredulous. That's his text! "Go," he tells her laughing. "I'll tell mum to not worry about you. We'll get you well-rounded yet. Ouch!"

"Ron! You never ever say that to a lady!" Lavender informs him scandalised, _and maybe with a certain gleam in her eye._

"But what did I say?" Ron complains, earning himself another smack. _Twinkle twinkle._

"I'll leave you two to it, shall I?" Hermione says faintly, looking from one to the other. Parvati winks and Hermione leaves, feeling somewhat hazy with low blood sugar level and bafflement.

If Lavender or Parvati noticed her absence last night they do not remember it. They never asked her about it that morning either, and they would have, chatty and curious as they are. So Hermione's experiment went unnoticed. That's good. In a sense all is as it 'as usual'. Apart from Ginny's and the twins' aggressive streak. Or was that friendly banter and she, tired from all that excitement, misinterpreted it?

Hermione sighs and makes her way to the library. She did expect interest in the naming of the assistants, of course. But McLaggen's questions were borderline disquieting. She hopes she misunderstood him too. Him and Ginny. Not that she herself did not wonder about the matches...

Actually, she didn't. Until Ginny mentioned it, her own thoughts had been very much occupied by the rather gruesome spectacle that ended their day at Gringotts Glasgow. But now that she is thinking about it, Cedric and Susan are perfect. Cousins and old friends, with Susan being the one person on earth who remembers that Cedric is by no means perfect, Cedric joked during the ride back. When they were all trying to forget the spectacle of a man not just being eaten alive in four bites, but of his parts then being still visible, seemingly suspended in the air_ – only a smattering of blood drops on the ice bellow._ Trying to forget that she had found herself staring straight into the fiery _– screaming –_ but transparent ...bird's stomach. _Don't go there. Just. Don't-_

And then she is at the library, or has Harry found her? She does not remember.

"There you are. I asked Ron to find you. Is he all right?"

_Of course he is. I seem to be the only one who is overreacting today_: "Lavender and Parvati have developed a sudden interest in him. I dare say he will be all right. Lavender might decide to polish his manners, though." Of course, only the chosen assistants and champions stood really close to the goblet and were then forced to stay for most of the spectacle there, as they had been the furthest from the exit. Still, the other five seemed to have recovered faster that she had.

"Really? That would be just in time. Did you know that we will have a ball around Yule? A real ball, with dress robes and dates?"

"No. Tell me on the way. Where are we going anyway?"

"Professor McGonagall kindly allowed me to use one of the guest rooms of Hogwarts for a little picnic," Harry said smilingly. "Kreacher provided me with the ingredients for your favourite kind of tea, you see, and I thought that it would be nice to invite the Triwizard Team."

"That's a nice name. Who came up with it?"

"I did. I thought that since we are competing we wont have the chance to talk much, and decided that a little friendly event now would be a good idea. Especially after the day we just had. Did you hear that the Goblins said that the Goblet was now heavier than it had been before? Elder Ubbe said that it had acquired a new stone. Can you believe that? I mean, Karkaroff being worth a gem stone? I was surprised that the thing did not let him go after the first bite!"

Hermione stops and leans against the closest wall. She stars at Harry. Harry gazes back at her, in pure puppy-eyed innocence; an expression he hadn't known, let alone mastered before moving in with Sirius and Remus: "Never mind that he can't have had stones himself. Hell, I bet he sold his Death Eater mates after the war in hoping to finally be able to afford a pair. Don't you think that Death Eaters appear entirely to unbalanced to have-"

"Harry," Hermione warns her friend.

" - led healthy lives? Sirius says-" He pauses expectantly but Hermione does not rise to the bait again, so he concludes: "-that it is the English Breakfast."

Hermione feels her mind explode with inappropriate questions about people who are almost as old as her parents. Does she dare peep at the pictures forming in her mind?

_No!_

But she grasps instinctively that the gallows humour is meant to help her and tries to go along with it: "I expect the Goblet was feeling peckish. Which is understandable. I mean, really, it is as old as the ministry itself. I bet no-one ever remembers to feed the poor thing. Do you think the manufacturer included guidelines concerning it requirements? Karkaroff must have been eating a lot of fish, so he was probably quite healthy. But what if he drank too much?"

"Hermione, it's a Goblet."

"Huh?"

"There is no such thing as too much drink if you are a Goblet."

"Oh."

"Now come on. The others are waiting."

"Did Kreacher bring chocolate cream," she asks in a still-too-timid, high, un-Hermione-ish voice. (At least she's no longer trembling, Harry thinks. He had remembered his second year and decided to delay the return to Gryffindor Tower. He should have warned Hermione, but he had been too distracted.) "It's not actually part of that sort of tea, but I like it."

"Yes. Oddly enough Kreacher did include chocolate cream. I had not idea that it wasn't part of the usual arrangement until Cedric told me."

"Of course. Let's go, they are waiting." She is still supporting herself against the wall... but she's feeling much better now. "Come on.".

**!_.**

The room is the sitting room of a guest suite. It is old-fashioned, even for wizard standards, and comfortable as well as comforting. The fire is open, bright and merry. Not at all like a demonic bird-like creature that had eaten a living person.

A towel-toga-clad house-elf is actually in attendance, but she's snipping instead of actually touching the cups and plates. Her presence too is comforting. Best of all is that all four human occupants of the room seem genuinely pleased to see them. Hermione and Harry sit on the remaining two chairs. High backed but comfortable (true magic, that).

Harry's impromptu full tea is a success. The Hogwarts elves have augmented Kreacher's provisions (which had been for three persons) and the additions are substantial. Caffeine and sugar ease the students over the lingering shock as well as over the conversational bumps that are to be expected in such a situation. They are soon chatting about a number of topics (comparing their schools, sweets, professional Quidditch, favourite subjects, weekend distractions during school, lunch menus). The Tournament is only mentioned when they finally part and wish each other good luck. Then Cedric and Susan are off to Hufflepuff while Viktor and Harry go to meet the other Durmstrang students.

The Beauxbatons students had been told to spend the Sunday at Hogsmeade and aren't back yet but Fleur offers to take Hermione to meet Madame Maxime and Hermione accepts eagerly. She wants to avoid Gryffindor Tower almost as much as she wants to talk to the Headmistress of Beauxbatons.

"It was so disturbing," Fleur remarks upon reaching the blue coach. "Seeing a giant fiery bird like that. For a moment I thought I was having an out-of-body experience while my other shape was eating that man. I think I will stick to vegetables and sweets for a while."

And Hermione understands why 'her' champion did not touch lunch either and why, during tea, she spread her Cornish Splits so enthusiastically with chocolate.

**#_#**

Madame Maxime, it seems, has been wanting to to talk to Hermione. At the moment she wants to talk about the sensitivity Hermione displayed in Gringotts. She makes no bones about her belief that it indicates a mixed ancestry. Hermione thinks that's far-fetched. She can accept the existence of hidden magical ancestors, maybe by way of squibs, but Madame Maxime is rather adamant that this is not a human trait.

"Most modern witches and wizards consider sensitivity a superstition, and, funny enough, all of my students who have shown such tendencies have been muggleborn. Which means that whatever it is, if indeed it is something, is avoiding established magical bloodlines, but how can a trait avoid a bloodline, if it is only a trait? Sure, avoiding the magical world can be regarded as wise, considering how isolated and conceited we can be. Incidentally, I am curious: could you tell me how you feel about house-elves? My muggleborn students tend to have strong views on them."

Hermione hesitates:"I am reserving judgement because I really do not know that much about them. I had to work really very hard to start understanding the magical world-view at all when I came to Hogwarts. Nothing made sense, even when I could see that it worked."

"Your parents told me about that. They said that you would quote books every time they asked you for an explanation."

"Yes, it was a sore subject. They always wanted me to explain in my own words, and I was so worried that I would say nonsense if I tried. Magic was so unlike everything I had known before. It started getting better during third year. Something clicked in my brain then. I can see it as a separate but equally true reality now... most of the times. The concept of the Goblet, or Impartial Judge, as you called it, is still-"

"Frightening?"

"Yes," Hermione admits.

"It should be, in my opinion. It is a form of magic that most magicals do not comprehend; goblins are much better with it than human witches and wizards. If we had done today's ritual without them, the magical preparations alone would have taken five to eight days."

Days! Hermione is instantly bursting with questions... but she has learned about diversions. Snape has taught Harry and her well: "I do not see what it has to do with house-elves or with me. Unless you want to tell me that I am part house-elf myself." _That would definitely explain why wizards and witches do not admit it._

Madame Maxime smiles to herself: "No. House-elves cannot mix with other species. They are quite singular, in that."

"How can we be sure of that?"

"It is safe to assume that all that can interbreed has done so and has done it repeatedly. Believe me," says the half-giant, "we would me for playing, Miss Granger. Among those who accept that the various elf races have not left us as completely as it seems this sort of sensitiveness is regarded as a sign of Sidhe blood. Or some other kind of elf, though for some reason we prefer that name. Anyway. Seeing as humans have not seen Sidhe in almost a millennium, most of us are convinced that they have left or that they have changed beyond recognition."

"Into house-elves, you mean. No, you don't. Are house-elves related to Sighe at all?"

"Wizarding wisdom has it that they are either distant relatives or a species that was created by them for us."

The other way around sounds likelier to Hermione: "The way most wizards treat them I'd think that wizards created them for their own convenience, using Sidhe that they somehow convince or forced."

"This is a theory that only muggle-borns express. The same muggleborns who feel disgust about the way many house-elves treated. But I digress. Personally I think that they are a natural species that must have entered a magical contract. Wizards do not have the sort of knowledge that might lead to the creation of a new species. If nothing else, we would know more about their magic if we had designed them and believe me when I say that we know very little. Anyway, it was mostly your reaction to the Goblet today that gave me ideas."

"But how can you think that Sidhe are around, all lack of proof notwithstanding?" _I suppose I could tell you about species that are around but ignore us as we ignore them,_ Hermione thinks, remembering the words of 'Hogwarts'._ But I think I will wait with that. No sense in repeating my mistakes about trusting people too easily.  
><em>

"I have no fixed opinion on that matter. I feel that people who have are often assuming too much. I will admit that it is connected to basic questions about the origins of magic that interest me. And it might interest you that the concept of heightened sensitivity is widely accepted. It is regarded as a result of experience. What is not accepted is the idea of born sensitives. Power is seen as something that comes through study, experience and maybe also through ruthlessness."

"That sounds like the contrary of what blood purists are saying."

"Yes and there is a reason for that. I am sure I do not need to tell you more. But to return to our central topic, you will do well to remember that 'elf' is an umbrella term," Madame Maxime points out. "That's the reason why even wizards who do accept the existence of specific inborn magical abilities do not bother examining the ancestry of persons who appear to have any."

"So you basically told me nothing about myself other than there is a vague possibility of something vague. I can live with that, but why would you bother?"

"Because I cannot shake the feeling that you will find out and tell me. And because I consider it wrong to keep my thoughts to myself. Vague as they may be – and they are a little more solid than you seem to believe. It is just that my data do not allow a conjecture, for now – they are about you."

"This is a most refreshing attitude, Madame. May I ask what you told my parents when you met them, seeing as it concerns them as much as me?"

"I told them that I believe that they have magical ancestry that may or may not be entirely human. That, incidentally, is something I tell all parents of muggleborn students. Often enough it turns out that their last magical ancestor is still alive and can, now that they have been let into the secret, help them and their children adjust. Your parents told me that they agree with the magical ancestry, as your magic cannot be the normal sort of mutation. As for the non-human part, they assured me that your family doctor considers you very normal indeed."

All three women smile at that. Hermione has no difficulties imagining the very inflection her father would have used. She really has to write a long letter to her parents. Tell them everything about the last few days. Maybe apologise for parts of last summer, too.

Madame Maxime continues: "The way you dealt with the Goblet of Fire and your friend's involuntary entry into the Tournament speaks of some sort of additional talent. The fact that you saw the bird today clearly, whereas most others only saw a fire – yes, that's all they saw – hints that this talent is about... recognition. Let's call it that, for now, until we know more. Combining that with your academic performance so far I cannot help hoping that you will discover answers to my questions. I am sorry, what did you say Fleur?"

"I said she can discover the answers to everything after we win this Tournament," Fleur repeats calmly.

"I will do my best to assist and you will do your best to win," Hermione says earnestly.

Fleur nodds as if accepting an offer. Hermione decides there and then to really, really work as hard as she can. She's disposed to like her assigned champion anyway, but the girl was one scary ...bird.

"Fleur, don't be a slave-driver. Hermione must not neglect her regular studies."

Hermione feels that she could get used to being treated with respect and honesty, even if it confuses her. Her last question to Madame Maxime is if she believed that other people had formed the same conjectures as she has about Hermione's abilities.

"I notice a tendency to keep you from your friend Harry," the headmistress answers candidly. "Dumbledore's original proposition would have ensured that you compete against each other. Of course, the Goblet did give him that, in the end. But he had tried to force my hand by suggesting that the remaining two assistants be chosen from the best students. He perceives a discrepancy between magical abilities and academic performance and he did not trust your magical abilities to be enough or he would have suggested the Impartial Judge himself. He is very fond of that principle."

Later she will consider her feelings about Albus Dumbledore's attitude towards learning in general and herself in particular. Now she has more pressings matters to think of: "How sure are you that he did not manipulate you to do it for him?"

"We never talked about the possibility. He and the late Karkaroff spend the night discussing matters of... To put it bluntly, I added my terms for the continuing of the tournament after your headmaster had finished his announcement."

"Oh." That had not been a planned and agreed-upon two-part-announcement? "Do you mind if I ask about the reasons for your antagonism to my headmaster?"

"I would mind if you didn't. Albus Dumbledore has a history of pledging his support and then slip in demands after the negotiations are over. (Yes, I did something similar yesterday. I do not do that, normally.) Or imply his support but refrain from an actual agreement that would state actual responsibilities. I would never assist his political enemies here in Britain. I may not like him but I would not want to have to deal with them. However, I see no reason why not to assist my champion's assistant and promising future researcher who happens to find herself in opposition to him. "

She looks sternly at Hermione: "Albus is fond of saying that his plans serve the greater good. You will have to decide for yourself if that greater good includes you. I do not envy your position. You are too young to find yourself in opposition to such a man. But you have many advantages, the least of which is that Albus probably underestimates you. I cannot fathom why, but- Let's say that considering he is a teacher, he does not seem to believe in learning. He sees that we employ our will to perform magic and somehow that has given him the idea that intent is everything. Which is like saying that will is everything because people have to want to move an arm or an leg in order to do it. Simplicistic, to say the least."

Hermione has spend a lot of time idolising Albus Dumbledore. Whom Madame Maxime apparently considers a ruthless political player. In the guise of a grandfatherly headmaster. Who, like Snape, considers her a fluke, good in class but not _really_ good.

"That is a lot to take in. I will think about it. But I hope that you are wrong."

"I don't. That would be sentimental. There is a place for loyalty and it is an important one, but letting fondness blind you- I should really stop. Your day has been hard enough already and I am making it worse, especially considering that I am just telling my own wild theories."

Madame Maxime sighs deeply: "Here I am, piling your plate with all sorts of unpleasant things. I really need to restrain myself. But please, before you go, think and tell me if there is a ...hm, a part of or phenomenon in nature that you feel particularly attuned to."

Hermione looks into Madame Maxime's eyes: "Why do I think you've already guessed what it is?"

"I would never 'guess', child. I have an affinity towards stone due to who my mother was. Unfortunately, stone is very stable. That means that we barely react to the others. Fleur here is attuned to fire. She says that she feels calm around you, which means that you are probably not water."

Hermione likes water a lot, so this 'special relationship' is not something that feels like 'liking'. What else could it be?

"I have a very strong impression that stone – which I did not consider an element before, shows how little I know about the magical world-view – likes me, if stone can like anything."

That expression must have a particular meaning for Madame Maxime, for she smiles a truly wicked smile to herself.

**.°o°O°o°.**


	14. Seeds, leaves & a chemical challenge

**Chapter 9, wherein plants are examined, a certain age is happening and feelings are mixed.**

It comes as no surprise that Rita Skeeter thinks in terms of front pages. Skeeter is a witch of many talents: journalist for the Daily Prophet, informant for unnamed, but not really surprising, if their identities were to become public knowledge, clients. (For them she also instigates and _coordinates_ – inofficial, but highly visible – public campaigns. Such campains are rare, yet they form a third of her income.)

The ever changing first page of the newspaper of her mind has the layout of the Daily Prophet but uses a different type. Rita sees all of the paper, not just the front page. In her mind, each issue has a shape. Some are pointy, some are square. Sometimes – rarely, and not since the last war – they have an unusual number of planes. Rita is not a synaesthete: the shapes come in colours but they don't have weight or surface textures. Unless something is wrong. The current issue looks – feels! the horror! – like a ball of fluffy wool. The sort of fluff that makes her fingertips hurt. And that's happening because Rita Skeeter is furious.

She has been banned from access to the MoM, For the second time in less than eight months. Truly banned, as in: the ban goes for her too, not just for the other suckers. Pesky rules about secrecy and privacy; she used to be the great exception, but now she may have lost that privilege. And her inside contacts haven't contacted her yet. The MoM has updated its anti-Animagus wards too; a result of Black's trial last spring. And Rita has not managed to get keyed into them (getting keyed into wards against magic that one isn't supposed to have is sensitive work, even for a Rita-Skeeter-grade genius in circumvention and wheedling).

As so often, frustration leads to futile fantasies: Rita is imagining a spell that would show her the secrets of every wizard and witch in Britain. Obviously, that spell would present these secrets in the form of headlines and Rita would not need more than one glance in order to decide whether these headlines are Worth Printing.

It is just as well that she does not have the spell of her dreams, as most secrets simply aren't Rita's sort of secret. If she had her spell, Rita would first get hit by a mental avalanche. If she survived that she would then die of boredom. Unless of course she were so lucky as to start with the secret thoughts of someone whose world-view is made up like hers. Someone who not only divides the world in suckers and sheep, but is also privileged to share the secrets of suckers disguised as grandfatherly, kind sheep.

There would have to be a lot of luck involved, but Rita Skeeter and – just for example – the current Hogwarts Potions Master would, if the latter were stupefied before being hit with that imaginary spell, get on like a horcrux on fiendfire. Sadly, Rita is not significantly more lucky than an entire universe and Severus Snape sits alone and unmolested in his study. Thinking about recent events. Eight months ago Aurors had discovered a Death Eater who should have been dead for over a decade. That Death Eater, Barty Crouch Jr, had not been free as such, but with only his old father and an even older house elf to control him he would have freed himself eventually. Severus is inclined to believe that Albus would have alerted the authorities in time, but it is very much like Albus to leave things be for as long as possible; see if they won't come in useful. Albus, being old, believes in being patient.

Severus Snape has spend most of his life serving and studying a master. One or the other. His current master is Albus Dumbledore, and Snape knows his master: Dumbledore caused the discovery of Barty Crouch Jr in order to derail Crouch Sr, who had started turning dangerous during the trial of that mutt, Black. Dumbledore however had not caused, planed or even just intended the death of Igor Karkaroff. Snape is sure about that. Someone else had moved against this prominent and increasingly well-connected blood supremacist. Barty, whose very existence had been a secret, could have caused untold mischief. Igor Karkaroff had stayed away from Britain, but he had used his school to promote his views and build new, far-reaching political connections for himself. And he had just died as well. One might regard his death as a warning. Especially if the gory details were to become public. Snape does not shudder; he has seen worse and done worse, and he cannot shudder any more.

He can still be iritated by contradictory facts: Karkarrof's death must be an accident. If it was not an accident it was the work of a very dark wizard, but there is no whisper of the Dark Lord himself, and it is unlike Albus – he of the light morals and questionable methods – to move without urgent reasons. But what if it was not a coincidence? Is it possible that Dumbledore is keeping secrets from Severus Snape? Answer: Albus may be trying, but would he be able to keep secrets from a spy of Snape's calibre? If he is... masters with secrets are dangerous, as Severus Snape knows all too well. He really needs to decide what to do about this situation. Severus Snape is more or less as intelligent as he thinks he is, which is unusual; he is not intelligent or wise enough to acknowledge and somehow circumvent his personal blind spots. Which is why his assessment of the current state of affairs contains several grave mistakes.

****..ooo..****

History of Magic. Harry Potter is thinking about his oncoming duelling practice with the Durmstrang students. Viktor decided that Harry, as his assistant, should join them; the chance that Viktor will have to duel during the Triwizard Tournament is reasonably high, and Harry, who as of now knows nothing about duelling, will be his second. The new Deputy Headmaster of Durmstrang, a very cultured-looking middle-aged man called Hvite agrees with Viktor. Harry, though aware that he will have to learn very fast, is looking forward to his lessons: the Durmstrang candidates had been chosen from among the best duellers of their school. He is amused that he and Draco are going to be classmates once again. Apparently they cannot really do without each other, Harry thinks and can't suppress a snicker.

There is also the matter of his fellow Gryffindors to consider. Ron and his dorm mates have told him about the discussion he missed yesterday. What had McLaggen been playing at? Do the students actually expect Harry to fail his champion on purpose? Harry wishes he could discard that thought as absurd but can't. This is Hogwarts after all, where students had no problems believing that the son of a muggleborn witch was hunting other muggleborns with a mythical beast. He decides to take the matter to Professor McGonagall. Checking the baser impulses of the students is her job, not his: "Ron! Wake up!"

"Hwah?"

"We are going to talk to McGonagall, all five of us. I need you to back me up. Warn the others."

"Huh? All right, mate."

Hermione is surprised to see her male year mates walk energetically out of Binn's class: _One might almost believe they were awake during lesson, _she thinks. This absurd thought cheers her a little. Since the history professor can capture only so much of her attention, she has been pondering Ginny's question – though not Ginny's tactless choice of words. That was only an attack of Podostomatose Juvenilis*, Hermione is sure – and has, so far, come to no result that she can accept. To utilise the youngest Weasley's words once more before they shall be allowed to fade, Fleur is intelligent, athletic and three years ahead of Hermione, schooling-wise (Fleur's tremendously hot, too, but Hermione does not expect that to help with the tasks). Hermione's various bad habits (knowing-it-all, studying ahead, reading school books for recreation, etc.) may shrink the difference a little. Say it's two years instead of three. Say there will be useful differences in what they know, what with them attending different schools. Will that enable Hermione to assist Fleur, Hermione wonders. She is inclined to be pessimistic; her friends, were they privy to her dispirited musings, would tell her that she is just nervous. Well, Harry would. Ron would simply roll his eyes but Ron overestimates her, Hermione thinks sourly.

Transferring one's misgivings on uninvolved and innocent parties is a time-honoured practice, but in this instance it fails to relieve the offender. Which may be just, even if the offence, having taken place inside the offender's mind hasn't actually hurt anyone... other than Hermione, who is increasingly cross with Ron, the weather and the record prices recently fetched by the works of Van Gogh. There has to be something she can do, she huffs inside her head. The rational voice attempting to remind her that _yes, she could simply relax and wait for the clues the jurors have promised to reveal today_ might as well be speaking Chinese. Hermione is not getting it.

Thankfully, the next lesson is Potions, and poisons, and today's task is to produce an antidote without taking any of the many possible missteps, each of which will turn the antidote into one of many possible poisons. Knowing what only two minutes of overheating will do to the contents of your cauldron is strangely intoxicating. Right now for example it would produce nearly invisible but lethal fumes... what a shame, Professor Snape decides to check the cauldrons at the other end of the dungeon. Can she heat it for a couple seconds longer? She can't. Pity. Hermione puts out the flame, stirs correctly and very, very carefully (Snape still hasn't returned! Why, at the current stage of the potion it would take only one drop to give him a lovely case of urticaria) and finally bottles the result. Is Snape avoiding her eyes? Must be her idea. Ah, but planing murder and mayhem can be so cathartic! By the time she joins the Triwizard Team and the jurors for the promised clues, Hermione's immune system has dealt with the Podostomatose Juvenilis virus that had been trying to take over her brain. Hermione is once again able to regard the world rationally. She is certainly very detached when she sees what the jurors offer as clues:

_Fabergé eggs? Really? _

Three golden eggs, maybe twice the size of chicken eggs. Too light to be solid and discreetly ornate. Unmistakably different: each champion had to pull his – or hers – blindly from a big bag. They are now to research the eggs, discover their hidden messages and prepare accordingly for the first task. They are not allowed to consult anyone other than their own assistants, though they may request and use material, such as books or potion ingredients.

Fleur and Hermione retreat to Fleur's 'practice room' in the powder blue coach. (The coach is quite interesting in that it is far larger from the inside than from the outside but that individual rooms can only be accessed in particular combinations. And Hermione is not to think about that now, Fleur reminds her assistant.) They have already discovered that the egg has small hinges and opens, and that opening it releases the most painful cacophony. Which is why they are now examining the outside.

"You are right, it is a lot like a Fabergé egg," Fleur concedes. "I don't believe that it is actually valuable but the engravings are prettily done." The engravings are abstract. They look like waves, or curly smoke, or even hills. On the inside the egg is covered with dark green silk but whatever object it was made to hide is no longer there.

"Can you mute the screeching? I need to look closely at the cloth," Hermione says. Fleur tries a _mufliato_. When it fails to produce an effect she simply spells her and Hermione's ears. Dark black-green silk, smooth and cool, no patterns on it, no lace, no stones or pearls, nothing but some pins to hold it in place. Hermione makes a rip-off gesture and Fleur waves her hand in agreement: _go ahead. _Hermione pulls firmly at the cloth. And pulls. And pulls. And pulls. The fabric seems _endless_. After a while Fleur takes the egg from her and starts stuffing the cloth back, but to no avail, the fabric keeps spilling out of the golden egg. In the end Fleur simply shuts the egg and the fabric stops growing, but the egg still sports a silk train that did never fit into it in the first place. Fleur cancels the spell on their ears: "The noise is still there, but it is very low now," she says, and Hermione nods. "What do you make of our clue?"

"There are several creation myths from all over the world that feature eggs," Hermione says pensively. "But I do not think that it is connected to these stories. Do you think that we are meant to figure out what sort of object it held?"

"The object could be still in there, and the noise and spilling fabric are diversions we have to cancel in order to get it," Fleur muses.

"And are they ever diverting," Hermione mumbles. "Do you know anything abut magical Fabergé eggs? Are any known that contained songs or stories?"

"No. They would contain artificial flowers that would bloom and reveal gems and jewels. I have also heard of eggs with little artificial animals inside that would produce the same things in cruder ways."

"What animals would that be?"

"Any animal that produces eggs, in theory, but actually mostly birds because they are prettier than fish or dragons. But I am really not convinced that Fabergé eggs and puzzles are our clue."

"It certainly does not sound dangerous enough," Hermione agrees. "Anything we can say about that fabric?"

Both girls let the silk flow through their fingers. It's unusually smooth, even for silk, and colder than any fabric should be; in fact, it fells so much like: "Water," they say in unison. Yes, Hermione thinks. The way it started to flow out of the egg, and could not be stuffed back, once you had released it. So much like a liquid!

"Does that mean the the task will take place underwater," she wonders. Fleur shudders: " I hope not. I do not want to dive into that awful lake you have on your grounds." Hermione starts to defend her school and its admittedly uninviting lake – _especially in winter. Hagrid says there are grindylows in there! – _but thinks better of it: "I say we concentrate on finding a way to cancel that spell. For all I know there are instructions etched on the inside, waiting for us to get past the silk and noise."

"What if the noise has a specific meaning?"

"Oh it does. I am sure it does. It says very clearly that no matter what it may look like, the hinges on the egg are not the way to that particular omelette."

Fleur then looks quizzically at her. She picks up the egg and, standing up for additional height, smashes it against the floor. The effect leaves nothing to be desired. The silk explodes from the egg like black water from a fountain, instantly covering both girls, and the screeching sound rises to an impossible volume. For a moment Hermione thinks that _her teeth will splinter, never mind her eardrums, feels tiny strong hands pulling at her. _Then noise and silk – or inky black water – disappear. Champion and assistant look at each other: "Water," Hermione says. "Water with bad tempered grindylows in it. Definitely."

"I expect you are right," says Fleur, stooping to pick something from the floor. "Look. These are gillyweed seeds."

"I do not remember gillyweed from either Herbology or Potions. What does it do?"

"The boiled seeds remove liquids from the respiratory system. With a small quantity of powdered sandalwood they make a basic potion for the treatment of drowning victims. It is used externally and may lead to light burning of the skin, which is why it is normally tempered with rose oil," Fleur recites in precise tones. "I brewed it for my potions exam last year."

"Drowning! I do hope it will not come to that," says Hermione apprehensively.

"Yes."

"Now we only have to find out what you will be doing in the lake. Swimming alone does not sound dangerous enough, even with the grindylows figured in. We should look for potent warming charms, though, or maybe a potion that you can take the morning before the first task."

"What makes you think that I will be the one in the water," asks Fleur snappily. All of a sudden.

"Other than your being the champion and me just your assistant," answers Hermione, wondering what caused that.

"So? Do you really think that you are just my research assistant? They said that the tournament was deemed to be too dangerous for single champions. Whatever the first task is, we will be in that lake together."

Hermione sighs: "You are probably right but I would appreciate it if you did not snap at me."

Fleur does not reply.

_...look at it this way: she thought she was signing up for a tournament and now they are telling her that but for a questionable incident with a magical artefact she was about to get herself killed. She can't be happy. Also, she thought that she would be looking after herself, and now has been partnered with a younger pupil whom she does not really know, _Hermione's more mature second thoughts inform her. Hermione does not like it, but she can find no fault with this line of argument. Meaning she has to reassure her champion: "Fleur, if danger is really an issue then the jurors will hardly saddle you with the additional problem of a younger and less experienced person to look after during the tasks. However, since we have no idea where I will be during the task we should really look into ways for safe and simple communication. In addition to charms for warmth and breathing under water, that is."

"Add spells for sight and orientation. That lake is pitch black. It will be like flying through clouds. And I do apologise for my temper. I have an aversion to water."

..._full points for overlooking the obvious_, Hermione tells herself. Fleur is attuned to fire, and spends a lot of time as a bird. That's one, maybe two reasons for disliking water: "I apologise Fleur, I should have realised that."

"No need to pamper me, I am a big girl," Fleur replies, mood apparently restored. "Anyway. I am a strong swimmer – my parents insisted that I learn it as our aversion to water is widely known – but I never liked diving, and the thought of spending hours searching that lake for things makes me most uncomfortable."

"Why do think that you will have to search something in the water?"

"Your headmistress said that the tasks are based upon each other. The jurors gave us the eggs as keys for the first task. I believe that the task itself will be about retrieving similar keys for the second task from that lake. Think about it: it is big, dark, and populated with aggressive creatures. What better to do with it than hide something in it?"

_Treasure hunting in a difficult and dangerous environment. Fleur is right._ _That is definitely what I should expect in a tournament for wizards._

_**?_**_**0**

Their discussion results in a long list of charms and potions and Hermione heads directly to the library to start her research. She is on her way when two familiar voices call after her: "Hey Mione!"

She turns around on her heel to face the rapidly approaching twins: "And what are you paying Ron for the right to use his exclusive nickname?" That and a level stare stop the twins in their tracks. For an infinitesimal part of a second:

"Brother, I think she is warning us."

"Our own little pupil."

"Our young sparrow."

"Next thing she will threaten us Forge."

"Why should I warn you ahead," Hermione snaps at them.

"Because we are your favourite flying instructors."

"And as such we should like to request the honour of your presence on the Quidditch Pitch, dear lady."

"About a hundred feet above the pitch, to be precise."

"You see, we are dearly interested in that trick you pulled off the other day. You may remember it. The impossible one."

"I do not think that I could recreate it, and I do not want to die trying."

"In that case you will be delighted to hear that your death would greatly interfere with our plans," George says gallantly.

"Not that we would not have obliged you if your wishes had been any different," Fred adds nicely. And George rolls his eyes. As if disagreeing with the last sentence or with its having been uttered.

_Dear me. Am I really witnessing a moment of Fred and George instead of the usual Fred-and-George,_ Hermione asks herself. _Wonder what triggered it. Is it old age?_

"I am sure you would never make a lady ask twice," she says in a voice that is all sweetness and sharp edges. "What do you propose to do?"

"We wondered if we could persuade you to try a normal loop," says George in a unnaturally normal voice. "You described feeling a particular sensation when you did the inverted loop. We talked about that and think that if you tried a manoeuvre that you know to be risky but possible you could then compare what you felt like."

"You see," Fred chimes in, "such sensations can be the key to spell creation. If we duplicate it and find out what triggers it, it might point the way to a new spell or a combination of runes! We might discover how to perform forward loops on brooms! Imagine what Quidditch would be like!"

Hermione would rather not, but the twins' enthusiasm is great and she is tempted to let it carry her away, too. Almost, for there is something in the back of her head that is telling her to be careful. What is it?

"When did you two get into spell creation? Was it before or after you mastered spell-chains?" This is what was bothering her: in her second year she had asked them about a prank they had pulled and they had lied to her. Hermione does not take kindly to being lied to. Not at all. However, if the twins were to offer an explanation she would hear them out. The twins glance at each other and seem to come to a decision: "We did not know you well enough back then to tell you the truth. Especially as you were such good friends with Prefect Percy, too."

_True._

"And it was fun, watching you wrestle with OWL-grade material."

_I bet it was._

"Come with us to the library and we will show you our notes."

_Wait: "_You two keep notes? Isn't that way too dangerous? So many people here would love to prove that you did what they think you did."

"We need notes!"

"We need to be able to retrace our steps."

"We are inventors, after all."

"You are criminally insane. Tell me your notebooks are warded against strangers reading them, at least."

"Forge, I think she likes us."

"Of course she does. We are terribly likeable."

"She might even-"

"She might. But we will ask her another time."

"I advise you to do whatever it is before I kill you," says Hermione who feels that they need to be reminded that 'she' is still there.

"You like us too much to do that," they answer in unison.

"Oh yes. Very much so. I would never dream of throwing you two into a cauldron of scalding skin replenishing potion."

"…"

"..."

"Having said that, it so happens that I am going to the library right now. You can come along or join me later and show me whatever notes you want to share, assuming that you really want to share anything. Personally, I would understand it if you thought that the less other people know about your techniques then safer you are from possible repercussions. As for flying with you again, I am afraid that I won't have time. I need to research a lot of, er, stuff. For Fleur. I hope you understand."

_In other words, go away. Something about you two makes my hackles rise, and not in a nice way. _Why yes, she did notice that they did not seem to care whether she went with them to the pitch or to the library as long as they were alone with her. Hermione would never have distrusted the twins. But the last weekend has left her as nervous as Alastor Moody. Pre-traumatic-stress-disorder, or the certainty that there is always more where _that _came from. _Admittedly, there are perfectly acceptable and even nice reasons for people wanting to be alone with someone, dear._

Hermione uses a rude verb to tell her thoughts to leave her alone. Her thoughts are not to be detered. When did her mother with all her annoying lectures about 'the natural urges of adolescents' take up residence inside her head? It is quite crowded already, with her first, second and fractal thoughts.

"Well, are you coming now or later," she asks Fred and George. And decides there and then that she knows how to deal with this problem and will put her knowledge to use. Morals be damned. Professor Moody will be _so_ proud.

"We will join you there."

"Yes, we need to fetch our notes first."

"See you in a few, then," she says and resumes her way to the library. Only to find that there is definitely no rest for the wicked. Hogwarts library, the place where no-one would whisper, for fear of the Wrath of Madam Pince. The same Madam Pince who is sulking and avoiding to look at the large troupe of ...gigglers that has taken over Hogwarts library.

How can that be? There aren't that many that young girls at Hogwarts, Hermione is sure. Ah: Viktor Krum is here. He is sitting at one of the reading tables at the far end with a heavy tome in front of him and a face as long as a bass fiddle. And isn't _sympathy, the impulse to offer an invisibility cloak and the impulse to hex his robes away so that the gigglers may devour him easier and be done with it_ not a strange combination of feelings, Hermione dear? 'Hermione dear' is indeed rather overwhelmed with the mixture of understanding and pure, acidic viciousness that is currently flooding her nervous system.

Viktor Krum is starring at a treatise on something or the other. He isn't shy, exactly, but he isn't used to having to deal with this sort of situation, either. At home, and even at Durmstrang he is 'just Viktor'. With the team he is 'that ruddy seeker who is still better than all of you lazy bastards together'. The people who knew him since he was a scrawny young boy see to it that he stays grounded. Viktor does not give interviews and when he has to appear before the press he has his trainer to do the talking for him. Which is all right with Viktor, but it means that now he has a crowd closing on him and no idea what to do about it. He will probably learn, sooner or later, but as of now he has been an international level player for less than two years, and he is badly out of his depth. Ignoring them does not seem to work. They are not going away. Viktor now knows why Malfoy was looking that nonchalant when he described the way to the library and assured him that 'Granger' would be there. He is going to cook that little shit in muled wine. After getting out of here alive. Thing is, he won't get out of here alive without resorting to drastic means. Unknown drastic means. Can he pledge Malfoy as a sacrifice to the gods of the underworld? Any gods of any underworld, Viktor isn't picky? Hardly. No sane entity would want Malfoy.

Wait, the gods do want him! Viktor hears a divine sound. A lion/dragon/banshee banishing the crowd. Followed by heavenly silence. What bliss. Viktor swiftly promises to boil Malfoy in the wine of Their choice, if They will only let him know when and where. Dare he stay here and wait for Miss Granger, now that he can pronounce her name?

"Ah." There go the pronunciation lessons with Malfoy. "Miss Granger?" When did she get here? Was she here all the time? Viktor's already abused nerves melt.

"Viktor. Fancy seeing you here," says Her-my-ow-nee in a throatier voice than Viktor remembers. Then she clears her throat and the truth of what must have happened hits Viktor. It is a testament to Malfoy's success as an informant/brainwasher that he wonders if she ate the crowd.

"Hermione. Was that you?"

"What are you talking about," Miss Granger asks harmlessly.

"These people that were here. Just now. You saw them, no?" Yes, silly questions are going to make a stellar impression. Maybe he should have stayed in the room when his father tried to tell him about talking to girls, but Viktor had chosen the time-honored response and fled.

Hermione looks around: "The kids who just left? What about them?"

"Nothing," says Viktor who does not want to talk about those people but, unfortunately, has forgotten how to word the question 'I know it is a little early but would you consider being my date for the Yule Ball'?

"In that case. I need to look after some ...things," says Hermione, who thankfully has no idea why Viktor is nervous or she, too, would not have managed to say as much as she did.

"Then I will leave you. Er. Draco says that you take your studies very seriously."

"I will. I mean, yes, that's right." She will ...go and read the Introduction to Higher Arithmancy. That should help. Right. What did she think just now? Ah, Viktor is leaving. Right. That has to be good. Yes. Now, what was she thinking?

George enters a seemingly deserted library. The only human being is Madam Pince, who for some reason forgets to bark at him the moment she sees him in advance for the wrongs he will undoubtedly commit later, which she has been doing since the second week of the twins' first year. A moment later she forgets to shout at Fred. The twins look at each other wonderingly: is that an ecstatic look on a face that lacks the musculature to pull it off correctly? Did Madam Pince finally turn the students who disrupted the quiet into ink? The corridor _was_ full with shell-shocked students. Then George perceives movement in the Restricted Section, and lo and behold, it is their very own bookworm, starring blindly at a book about: " 'A short History of Potions in a Hundred Notable Accidents' by Grendel Prince?"

Hermione lifts her gaze from the page, untold horrors still visible in her eyes. George suppresses a shudder and sneaks a look at the page: 'Accident 39, or the discovery of Animagus Revealis'. The pictures are truly too bad for words. Why on earth do they print shit like that? And what is that person doing with their additional animal limps, or what are the limps doing with-

Can George obliviate himself? After taking care of the bookworm who has spaced out, and who can blame her?

"Hermione? Maybe you should read something else, to get your mind off ...things. Don't you think?" Gently he takes her hand and pulls her out of the restricted section. Meanwhile Fred looks frantically for a harmless book. (Somehow both twins know better than trying to talk her back to her senses. No, what Hermione needs is a nice, heavy but harmless book.) Fred returns with a book. George looks at the cover and is delighted to see that it is indeed harmless:

"Here. Take this nice book about water plants. Didn't you always want a garden pond with nice singing pond lilies?" Aunt Muriel has one and they sing badly, but never mind that now.

"Look here," says Fred, opening the book for her, "if you eat that weed you will grow gills and webbed feet and everything. Wouldn't that be great for your athletic endeavours? You could go for swims in the Black Lake without the grindylows bothering you!"

The twins, having been berated by their younger brother two nights ago, have done what they rarely do and talked in something that almost wasn't twin-speak. The topic of their discussion was their new best friend and the unusual degree of worry the two of them have been experiencing – and boy, _did_ that girl have to discover a talent for getting into worrying situations that is threatening to rival that of Harry Potter? Apparently she did. Well, never mind that now. Their problem is – was – that there are two of them and only one of her. Not that they were anything more than newly-best-friends... but Ron managed to shake their certainty. Maybe he had seen something that they had missed. The twins' original partner in extra-curricular research and application of the results is Lee Jordan, and it so happens that none of the three of them is inclined in such a way as to allow for the possibility of awkwardness. A clever and not half-bad looking girl on the other hand might become a problem. It was not one when Ron decided to give his older brothers the 'hurt my friend and mum wont be able to save you' speech. The twins would have preferred to think that Ron is clueless as usual, but ickle Ronniekins isn't what he used to be: "Even mum noticed it!"

And so Fred and George have had a serious discussion and decided to back off. Preventively. The Goblet of Fire has done them a favour and enlisted Hermione as an assistant to Fleur Delacour, which means that Hermione won't have time for them, or anything besides her books. So, why did they ask her to come flying again? Right, they weren't thinking. Flying is wrong, but that loop was something they want to pursue. So they changed direction and offered a partnership-in-crime, which was as wrong as flying together. Don't blame them, they are barely seventeen and this hasn't happened before!

And now Hermione is staring blankly into space. No, blankly at Fred: "What did you say? Which weed?"

"Here," Fred hands her the book. "It's called gillyweed. You will have to order it from an apothecary or steal it from ol' Snape, but it sounds really useful." Fred sure is glad that the first book he grabbed randomly and opened equally randomly is such a success at returning Hermione's thoughts from whatever gruesome plane they have been lost in.

"Gillyweed! But, I thought – the seeds – She did not say – "

"Not the seeds. The leaves. Look, it says everything here."

Hermione is indeed back from what-the-hell-did-just-happen-land and speed-reading the text in the proffered book. Can it be that the answer to all of her and Fleur's problems just fell into her lap, just like that? Her instincts are protesting: it was way too easy! But the words on the page do not change.

"Fred, George, I think I love you." She hugs first one twin and then the other. Then she snatches the book and runs away. (Completely unaware that the twins are looking at their future and realising that they can't be two halves of one person forever. But that's a story for another time.)

"I should have known it wouldn't be that simple," she grumbles half an hour later. Yes, gillyweed leaves will transform her body, will give her webbed feet and hands and gills, will even make her comfortable with far lower temperatures than she would normally be, for a short period of time that should be enough for, say, the duration of one task. Especially as she can carry more leaves. But it won't work on Fleur. It's the veela thing. Apparently Fleur has precisely two shapes and not more than that. Or maybe it is that she simply cannot turn into an aquatic life form, not even for an hour. The reasons are a matter of speculation but Fleur's inability to use the leaves of gillyweed is an established fact. Hermione is more than a little dejected. Fleur isn't. She agrees that Hermione needs to acquire some gillyweed – Madame Maxime can ask her Potions Master to send them some – and Hermione can 'practice' using it.

"Don't be tiresome," Fleur says brightly. "You have solved a big part of our problem already, and we are only one day into our three weeks of preparation time."

"Fleur, we do not know for sure that I will need it."

"Yes we do. I am positive. One of us will be looking for the clue and the other will be looking for her partner and fighting grindylows"

"Fleur. Do you know anything that you want to share?"

"I know that the clue said 'unpleasant'. That was the most unpleasant scenario I can imagine," Fleur says with that incomparable Gallic shrug and a more pronounced accent than before. (She really needs to go to bed. If only that little girl will stop thinking that she has to solve everything today! It must be Fleur's punishment for doubting that she would get a competent assistant.)

"I cannot argue with that logic," Hermione says, and does it ever pain her having to call that tragically derailed train of thought 'logic'.

"You've had a long day," Fleur says soothingly. (Is that b...ird amused, Hermione wonders.) "You've come further than anyone else, I am sure. You should be content, Ermiónee."

_Er..._"What?"

"I prefer that pronunciation. It is much more aesthetic, don't you think?"

"You are right. I mean, it's a matter of taste. But you are probably right."

Fleur looks doubtfully at her and repeats that it has been a long day and Hermione should really go and rest. She will accompany her, in fact. Make sure that Hermione does not drop dead from mental exhaustion on the way. Fleur _is_ impressed, and a little angry that she herself completely forgot about the leaves, causing all that work for poor Hermione. Little does Miss Delacour know that poor Hermione is suffering not from overwork _– she even managed to do all her regular homework! No wait,_ that _would point to overwork –_ but from an influx of unwelcome chemistry. Her own and others'. _When did puberty happen, and why does it have to happen at all,_ Hermione is whining to herself._ It is so useless! Can't I read a book or two about it and be done with it? _She'd go as far as to accept a book with – ugh! – pictures. Right, make that diagrams.

_Sweetie, you are tired. It's a lot funnier than you think now. In fact, the only people who suffer are the parents and you yourself when you are older and remember it._

_That is the least widely supported opinion on the matter I have ever heard_, Hermione admonishes her thoughts.

...she does wish that things would not progress as fast as they do. So many disquieting things that she should be thinking about have been buried under the onslaught of still more unexpected turns. For example, she just remembers that she had considered fading and following the twins (for whatever silly reason). She is thinking about fading, as if that were the most normal thing in the world, and not a highly mysterious skill she acquired recently in ways she cannot begin to understand. She should be writing things down and looking for books that explain them! Not continuing to explore without a map! Though how she can believe that there will be a map waiting for her in a library is anybody's guess. Hermione may be vaguely aware of that problem, for she pauses before entering Hogwarts and looks up. Searching. The night sky is clear and the night is accordingly cold. The stars offer no advice on anything.

"Hermione? Why did we stop?"

"It's nothing Fleur. Look, we are already there. You do not need to come any further. You are tired, too."

Fleur decides that now that Hermione is back in the relative safety of that draughty and scary castle she can indeed leave her. Hermione is not a baby, after all. Hermione, who wishes she was, as that would not solve but certainly_ delay_ her problem with chemistry nicely, makes her way to Gryffindor Tower. Harry and Ron are in the common room, sitting in front of the fire. They are playing Exploding Snap. Both seem to be in high spirits, but they excuse themselves from telling her about their afternoon. Hermione deduces correctly that they are talking about Viktor, and his and Harry's preparations, and does not ask. Then she remembers something. One of the many worrisome things that somehow keep giving her the slip every time she wants to sit down and examine them: "Harry, do that spell of yours," she says. Harry obliges and performs his now signatory privacy spell: "What's the matter?"

"I wanted to tell you that your new map does not work as well as the old one. Remember, Sirius said that he and Mrs. Weasley had spend all night in Dumbledore's office. Well, your map did not show them. According to the map they weren't in Hogwarts at all."

"Dumbledore knows about the map and suspected Remus and Sirius would make a new one for me after the original was confiscated. Obviously he added more wards for his own office. As I told you before, I used the map all through the Potions Wars and it worked just fine."

_So he is all right with you being able to avoid professors and prefects as long as you cannot observe him?_

Even with the privacy spell having been cast, Hermione is too paranoid to voice that thought. Harry's smile and calm tone is telling her that he, too, has made that connection.

**.o.o.**

Minerva McGonagall is more tired than she would have thought possible. After over three decades of teaching and a war that is saying something. She is being visited by the deities of Retribution, and while she knows that she deserves all she gets – She sighs. She made her choices when she started working for Albus and confirmed them when she became a member of the Order. Still. The visit of the fourth year Gryffindor boys – her Gryffindors! – seems to have rekindled every tiny flicker of doubt she has ever felt. All at once. Harry Potter decided that his Head of House needs to know that some of her Gryffindors may be trying to undermine the Triwizard Tournament. His year mates were there and backed him up. And that is as things should be. If only it wasn't Harry Potter. Who must learn to stand alone, for all their sakes, or everything will be lost. Minerva is patient like a rock. She knows why Albus believes what he believes, and she knows for a – damned – fact that he is honest. That he – they – have tried everything else. So she listened, then hardened herself and told Harry that he had to deal with that mess alone. Do not ask for help, especially not your friends, especially not Miss Granger.

Not in so many words, of course. She wishes she did not know how to say what she said while pretending to help, but she does.

She would be both relieved and proud to know that Harry was not deceived.

****.o.o.**O****.o.o.**

* * *

><p>*Podostomatose Juvenilis: Juvenile Foot-in-Mouth-disease. Transmitted verbally. Is either harmless or fatal. See: The Basics of Healing The Hopeless, by Amoebia Smith<p> 


	15. Into the Lake

_**Chapter 9: on to the first task**_

_You've come further than anyone else, I am sure. You should be content, Ermionee._

Said Fleur, and Hermione respects Fleur's opinion, so she_ is_ trying to believe her. The operative word being 'trying', of course. Maybe it's because Hermione is a perfectionist and 'further than anyone else' isn't cutting it. Maybe it's because that sort-of-a-vision of the lake was shocking. Nowhere near as frightening as Harry's name coming out of the Goblet of Fire, of course. Was that only three days ago? Time seems to have expanded. There is so much more happening during every single moment. _Unless I am overreacting_, she chides herself.

_Yes, that must be it, _she thinks. For good measure she adds a_ 'Honestly!', _accompanied by the trademark huff to herself. And realises that she is trying way too hard.

"Mi, are you all right?"

Parvati and Lavender have been waiting for her return from the blue coach. Parvati (thick royal blue flannel pyjamas and orange cardigan) and Lavender (apricot dressing gown over light green nightgown) are sitting on their respective beds. Hermione walks to her own bed and finds Crookshanks in possession. Should she disturb him? She does not really feel like it:

"I am fine. Bit tired, but fine. Long day."

"Why don't you take a shower and tell us about it afterwards? The parts of it that aren't secret, anyway," suggests Parvati sensibly.

"You don't have to stay up for me," says Hermione. "I mean, I'd like to talk to you, but it's quite late already," she adds, lest the girls think that she is trying to wiggle her way out of talking to them. A little pre-sleep chat sounds good, now that she thinks about it.

"Don't be silly," says Lavender. "Take your shower and come and drink a cup of tea with us." Lavender owns a rather wonderful bottomless tea pot. Once or twice a year she fills it with various sorts of tea and herbs and adds several gallons of water. The pot does the rest. It even 'knows' one sort of tea from each other, and which water temperature is best for each, which is real magic. Hermione can't tell Lavender's fruity infusions from another, but she likes all of them. The pot comes with sturdy cups. Milk, sugar and lemon slices are 'stored' in advance in the individual cups, so Hermione can have her tea without 'additives' while Lavender can rot her teeth to her heart's content; or could, if her teeth weren't indestructible, due to some potions her mother was taking while nursing her because of a condition that – Anyway. A shower, a cup of something hot and fruity and a chat with her friends before she goes to sleep. That sounds very nice indeed. (Incidentally, Hermione's dressing gown is pink. It was the thickest, fluffiest dressing gown Hermione could find at the time, and Harry and Ron will never find out what colour it is, let alone see it, so who cares if it is really _very_ pink?)

Hermione showers and completes her evening ablutions. Upon returning she finds that Parvati has lightened an incense stick; the stick's perfume is mixing with the bouquet of the two girls' teas, resulting in an atmosphere reminiscent of Divination classes. Only without the crazy bat urging you to 'broaden your mind'. Or was it 'widen your minds'? Whatever.

"The rose leaves again," asks Lavender.

"Hmmm. Rose tea is nice but I want something more ...sleep-oriented. I think I'll have Lavender."

Lavender smiles gracefully and hands her a cup. Hermione cannot talk about the session with Fleur, and the girls were with her in of most lessons today, so she tells them about the incidentals. For example, the unusual events at the library, and Krum's fans. She only casually alludes to the Roar. She was too surprised by everything, including herself, to think about it properly, or she would have realised that the story is already making the rounds. Parvati and Lavender were comparing versions while Hermione was in the bath room. Hermione however is busy thinking about something else. Hearing herself recounting her day made her realise something that she has been blocking out for some time: "I am getting a lot of attention, lately."

Her dorm mates have been Crookshanks's honorary humans for over a year now, and they have – somehow – learned a thing or two about subtlety and the bringing down of prey. Therefore Lavender just flutters her eyelashes with surprise and Parvati only smiles with completely harmless interest, and the word 'makeover' never crosses their minds.

_**O**_

A couple of hours earlier, that same day Harry Potter is freezing in the infirmary. Harry is in the infirmary because his newly named duelling instructor, Nils, a huge seventeen year old student from southern Sweden got too enthusiastic with his new student: Harry, it seems, is a natural dueller. His tutor, judging him – correctly – to be the fast, agile type, tried to demonstrate the downsides of that style and was delighted to find that Harry wouldn't be forced into corners. He was even more delighted when Harry, who knew no offensive spells yet, managed to get close enough to attempt a kick. Things progressed rapidly from there. True, duelling is absolutely not school level Quidditch and Harry has a lot to learn. But right now he is feeling awfully good about it.

Even though Poppy Pomfrey is huffing and puffing and murmuring about idiot students, abused muscles and the general silliness of kids. Just because she can remedy most of the damage they inflict on themselves they go and abuse their bodies as if there's no tomorrow. Makes her wish her vows would allow her to withhold treatment. Let them see what it means to break an arm. Don't they know that healing potions contain a temporal catalyst? That they use actual life time? What are these children doing during Potions, Madam Pomfrey wonders. Take Potter, for example, who is currently standing there in his boxers and shivering, for the ointment that she used on him takes a few minutes to dry. Fourth year now, and he still does not remember not to overdo Quidditch –

"What did you say you were doing, Mr Potter?"

"Duelling Lessons, Madam Pomfrey. My tutor got carried away."

"Duelling Lessons? Someone has to remind Mr Diggory that this is a school, not a sports club! First the insane training schedules he inflicted on his Quidditch team and now that! Really, the way Professor Sprout let's him get away with everything!"

Harry Potter concludes that Hufflepuff Golden Boy Cedric Diggory may be a duelling tutor, may also be as driven a Quidditch Captain as Oliver Wood, and that Madam Pomfrey is either completely overworked or completely confused for reasons that he, Harry, cannot fathom. Should he try to find out about Cedric? He thinks about it while dressing again and forcing down a potion that will, according to Madam Pomfrey, complement the ointment and spare him the results of his carelessness during practice. Ugh. Do they have to make them that awful? Yes, he will have a chat with Cedric. With Susan, too. Surely they can talk about all sorts of things that aren't mysterious golden eggs, can't they?

Oh yes. That thing. Viktor and Harry looked at it, weighted it and looked at it some more. They agree that it is solid gold and must be enchanted to feel ice cold to the touch. Harry suggested that maybe it was an imitation of a real egg and would, in time, perform some equivalent to hatching. Viktor said that he had heard of magical toys and ornaments that worked that way. Mostly they were imitations of dragon eggs, since dragons were popular, but obviously dangerous.

"Illegal, too," Harry had mumbled and glared at Draco, who had been sitting across the room. The Durmstrang students had single dorms, even on the ship, but these dorms were sparse, small and generally uninviting. The mess, on the other hand, was the sort of room to make Petunia Dursley... well, let's not go into that. 'S not as if Mrs Vernon Dursley ever –

The mess, to get back to the topic at hand, was a particularly beautiful example of old-fashioned (theoretically practical but in truth just cosy) naval interior design. The sort that makes even young men without snobby attitudes want to dress _really_ smart, maybe even don a uniform before settling for a gentlemanly drink and chat. (Harry wonders if Kreacher would remodel a room of Number 12 in this style for Harry; which raises the interesting question of whether Harry really doesn't know that he is Kreacher's favourite person on earth. But not now. Now we will concentrate on– ah, yes: the egg.) Viktor and Harry sensibly decided to accelerate the hatching process. After all, that would give them more time to work out the clue that had to be inside. Right? So they dumped the egg into a cauldron and hung that over a fireplace. A very promising tactic, especially if what you really want to do is to introduce Harry Potter into the Ancient and Noble Art of Hurting People While obeying Rules.

The late and largely unlamented Igor Karkaroff had been remarkably negligent towards the son of Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy Jr had claimed his new headmaster as a friend of his father's. Which may have been the root of his initial problems at his new school. Malfoy Senior did not remember his dealings with Karkaroff, what with having spend the entire time of their association under the Imperius Curse. Junior could hardly expect Headmaster Karkaroff to treat the son of so vague an acquaintance with preference, could he? Junior had expected just that. Headmaster Karkaroff had disappointed that expectation.

Families whose children being pampered in other schools complain about the harsh methods at Durmstrang Academy. Families whose children do attend will point out that the professors are vigilant, intolerant of foul methods and unfailingly fair: they make sure that each and every student is capable of taking on the others, that they all get their chance, and that they let each other eat, sleep and study between duels. It is possible that the headmaster had not realised that this was not the usual situation, which is all students being new and untested and scrambling to establish a social order in their year. Draco Malfoy on the other hand had been the only third year transfer student, and had found himself in the character-building situation of having to learn tact, acquire diplomatic skills and become aware that the world did not revolve around ...his father.

Flash forward to the Incident. The Incident had done a lot for Draco's relations with his hitherto unimpressed fellow students, especially when it had become clear how completely wrong it could have gone. Obviously, a scar was not enough to make the proud students of Durmstrang Academy forgive Draco for trying to take over the place by birthright. It did make them less blind to Draco's actual merits, now that Draco had decided to display them. Though how he came to accompany the Triwizard Candidates was something that Harry, who is currently relating the story as he knows it to Ron, could not say.

"But that ointment of Madam Pomfrey's is really amazing. By rights I should now be as stiff as a suit of armour," he ads as a finishing touch.

"Great. So you can return to your lessons tomorrow."

"You don't disapprove of duelling, do you?"

"Eh. Don't get me wrong, mate, but you look as if a team of giants had used you as a bludger. And you say that it was worse before Pomfrey got you into her clutches. Are you sure you need to be learning all that?"

Harry is flabbergasted: "Where's your sense of adventure, Ron? I am just a little tired."

"Harry," Ron says in the gentle tones of Arthur Weasley, "you are knackered. Without that ointment you'd be hurting all over. Even with it you will feel older than Dumbledore tomorrow. Your tutor is crazy or you are overdoing it or both. I can't have you hurt yourself, you know? Mione will kill me."

"Ron," Harry barely manages to say, "it's just basic duelling."

"No it's not and you know it. It is a new chapter in Harry Potter's quest to save the world on his own. Look here, I promise to get off my arse and master every spell Mad-Eye throws at us if you promise to take it easy. Is that an offer you'll consider?"

"But Ron, it is for the tournament," Harry protests.

"Yeah, sure it is for the tournament. I bet you a round at the three Broomsticks that Mione did not spend three hours with that hulk, and we both know that she will still be in top form for the task."

(Harry introduced Ron and Nils after dinner. Tall, gangly Ron rarely meets people who tower over him like that.)

Harry smiles: "Thank you for reminding me." He frowns: "I'd love to say that it won't be like that this time, but what are the chances? Statistically speaking?"

Ron nods: "Exactly. Now, don't get me wrong, duelling sounds awesome, but mum will have my head if anything happens to you. Cause, you know, I am half a year older than you," Ron finished with some embarrassment.

Harry snickers: Mrs Weasley obviously is that unreasonable. Poor Ron. Haunted by women who hold him responsible for Harry's well-being. But Harry can see that Ron is truly worried, and promises to take it easier. Especially as Ron turns out to be right about Harry waking up the next morning and feeling 200 years old.

Their discussion took place in their dorm, roughly at the same time as Hermione was chatting with her own dorm mates. Soon afterwards all of them went to their well-deserved slumbers and slept mostly easy. Harry certainly did not dream anything that would have prepared him for Viktor's contrite expression in the morning: "Our egg has melted."

And so it has. The fire should have assisted the hatching of the magical toy that should have been in the egg; instead, their golden clue (they hastened back to the ship and are now anxiously peering into the cauldron) has turned into a thick black liquid. Every now and then, its surface trembles for no apparent reason. What could it be?

Draco's already inspected it. It's no potion he recognises, and in his opinion, not a potion at all. Harry was very surprised to find himself listening to Draco's detailed account of properties and possibilities, and why this black glob is none of them.

"Green-black, actually."

"What? Yes Potter, if you look at it closely there is a greenish tint to the black. Do you think that means something?"

There is no venom in Draco's tone but Harry does not notice that. Another possibility occurred to him and now he is mentally probing his inspiration. It looks good. It is somewhat absurd, considering that they started with what looked like an egg, but other than that, and other than the haphazard way they took to get there...

"I think I know what it is supposed to be. I spend three winters looking at something much like it from a broom. You have seen it, too."

"What? Really?" Draco stares into the cauldron: "Hm. Stretch of the imagination, I should say. Makes sense, though."

"I know it does. Look at this."

Harry levitates a fragment of still-glowing ember and throws it into the cauldron. Instead of hissing and sinking instantly, it rests for a moment on top of the liquid. Then it sinks. For the moment it takes charcoal to sink out of view the boys hear a thin wail.

"You heard that too, didn't you?"

"Of course we did. Repeat that."

Harry levitates a larger ember, and they notice the way the surface underneath it reflects the weak light before that piece, too, sinks and wails.

"Potter is right Viktor, it could be the Black Lake. I know for a fact that there are meerpeople in there."

Draco, Viktor and Harry look at each other wearily: "This must be the most random clue in the history of the Triwizard Tournament," Draco drawls. The other two nod in agreement.

"What would we be doing in the lake," Viktor wants to know.

"In the lake, on the frozen surface or even in the air above it," Harry points out.

"Indeed. Aerial combat comes to mind," Draco says and Viktor nods eagerly.

Harry is cautious: "That would suit us, for sure. But I do not think this will be it. We would not have to deal with meerpeople in the air above the lake."

"Can we be sure that that sound was made by meerpeople? It could have been birds, or even the air on a really windy day."

"You were sure right now," Viktor reminds Draco. "It is simple. If that wail was, what is it called? Mermish, yes. All we need is to try a translation for mermish."

They look at each other again. They do not have to say that they have no idea how to identify, let alone translate the languages of magical creatures. Then Harry thinks of casting a light spell into the cauldron. The visage that scowls at them from the depths of the cauldron makes them take a hasty step backwards.

"Gah, Potter! I do not need to start my day with a close look at Jenny Greenteeth," Draco says, his sneer barely hiding his fright.

"Explain," says Viktor, who knows Draco's antics and has no time for them. Obediently, Draco explains in great detail about grindilows, Jenny Greenteeth, and other evil female creatures with voluminous hair.

"You'd think she was besting him for two solid years in class, the way he's going on about her," Harry says in his best imitation of Snape, which is uncanny indeed. A healthy strawberry colour tints Draco's face and neck, and Harry remembers Lucius reprimanding his son that a muggleborn witch was performing better than he was. Years ago, in a shop in Knockturn Alley. At the end of that year, Lucius removed his son from Hogwarts. Harry decides to switch topic.

"I am thinking that it could still be a task on or above the lake, now that I know that Jenny Greenteeth drags people into the water. The ice on the lake will be fairly solid. It is conceivable that the champions will have to do something on the ice, in such a way as to magnify the danger of falling into the water and having to fight this thing. Jenny."

Draco is looking at him pensively: "I think that Viktor was right, we need to check if that wail translates into words. Hvite can arrange passes for the Restricted Section. We will anything we need there."

"Who died and made you an assistant, cousin," Harry asks friendly.

"Is that one of your quaint Muggle expressions, cousin" Draco spits back at him. But then he smirks: "We had better hurry before Granger checks out all available books on creatures to keep the information we need from us."

"Hermione is too fair to do that," Harry says indignantly.

"Too stupid to be clever, you mean. Yes, it's a pity. All that brain, and it won't get her anywhere because she's too high and mighty to use it when it matters."

**O**

The passes for the Restricted Section were duly arranged. Viktor, Harry and Draco, who not only has attached himself to the two of them, but is actually taking over a share of the work, read through every single book on aquatic Magical Creatures. They take several feet of notes on their strengths and weaknesses and work out a list of specialised spells for Viktor to practise. Translating the wail is harder. It takes Draco more than a week to find a potion that can bestow a temporary ability to understand mermish. It is tricky and disgusting to brew, and Viktor is pale for two days after taking it. Worse, while the wail turns out to be mermish, it seems that melting the egg has damaged the sound recording spell.

"Of course it did. It was probably a rune etched on the inside," Harry comments. "Which means that we did not solve our puzzle the way we were supposed to."

Viktor can make out a vague warning that he would have to find something important, but no more than that. Still, Team Durmstrang is not too worried. No matter on which side of the increasingly solid ice the task will take place, Viktor is proficient enough with fetching spells to produce everything, from a broom (if it is an aerial duel, as he hopes) to an iron bar (for Jenny). He is good enough at self-transfiguration (which is to say, he excells at it) to turn into something that can breathe under water and as a seasoned dueller he knows how to properly power any spells he uses. What, then, could be there to worry about?

For Draco is not happy. Harry never knew, but Draco Malfoy is the tiniest bit anal and hates plans that do not cover every eventuality. Twice. Viktor however is confident and Harry agrees with him.

It is fair to say that while they do not neglect their research, they do spend most of their time teaching Harry how to not loose against Nils. It is also fair to say that of the three competing 'teams', Team Hufflepuff for Hogwarts (Cedric does not tolerate the moniker 'Team Hogwarts') is the only one to solve their puzzle the way that the maker of the eggs had intended, and find not only the complete clues, but also the egg shell made from milk and white chocolate.

_**O**_

In the three weeks leading to the first task, Harry will now and again recall Draco's comment about his female best friend and wonder if Draco was right. Obviously, Draco is not aware of Hermione's illegally brewing the Polyjuice Potion in order to illegally sneak into the Slytherin Common Room. Or of Hermione conspiring with her friends in order to dispose of Scabbers. Or even of the recent Potion Wars. Which surely means that Draco is wrong. Or so Harry hopes: Ron is right about him, Harry feels responsible for too many things, and he is extremely anxious about his friends. Speaking of Ron, he has finally found a chess partner who can give him a bit of a fight. That took a minimum of engineering on Harry's side, who is all for providing his friend with a chance to shine.

And all is well.

Only, Harry is still anxious.

_**O**_

A day or so before the first task, Hermione feels reasonably well-prepared. Fleur has spells for breathing under water, spells for 'night vision', spells for orientation. Even a spell that will boost her speed while swimming. Hermione has gillyweed and spells for orientation and light signals. Both of them can use these spells silently, which is to say, under water (Fleur was a little taken aback at how fast her fifteen-year-old assistant learned that). Most important, they have a spell that will transmit short messages between the two of them with almost no loss of time. Hermione has tried the gillyweed on two occasions. They have discussed strategies. In the best-case scenario, with Hermione being placed under water in order to look for clues and Fleur left to find her (and, undoubtedly, fight her way past grindylows and similar darlings) Hermione will send her her coordinates and Fleur will change shape and fly, and only dive into the lake when she is directly above Hermione's position. Ideally though, she will only circle for a while and wait for Hermione to emerge. (Obviously, they have a number of spells that will break, melt and even evaporate ice.) Fleur's second shape is a raptor and roughly the size of an Andean Condor. She is strong enough to carry her assistant to the shore; being carried is decidedly not comfortable, but Fleur is fast and the distance will be short. Incidentally, that shape is the reason Fleur is – indeed – _that_ strong: both the raptor and the human being true bodies of Fleur, they influence each other.

Yes, Hermione thinks, _we are as ready as we will ever be. _

The last three weeks have been a check on vanity she never knew she possessed. Wearing a swimsuit (she wasn't going to try the gillyweed in her robes, obviously) under Fleur's scrutiny was nothing short of torture. Berating herself that Fleur being breathtaking does not made her, Hermione, ugly had helped; but it had taken her several days to think of that in the first place. Fleur being relatively short-tempered did not help at all. Madame Maxime has had to intervene and explain to Hermione that ever since entering puberty, Fleur's had difficulties keeping female friends, and that that was not doing anything for her temper: "This may sound absurd to you but she cannot help feeling that she is being punished for her looks. Which are entirely accidental. I realise that you are not being insecure in order to torment Fleur, of course, but – "

The rest of that sentence was lost on Hermione who was thinking something silly along the lines of '_It is not insecurity when you _know_ that you cannot compete'. _Thankfully, Madame Maxime knows what sort of situation she had on her hands and continued her gentle reasoning until Hermione's rational faculties could restart and remind her that she was in no way _competing against Fleur. _

Looking back now, on the eve of the first task, Hermione feels that she has already been tried. Her fourth year is interesting in completely unexpected ways. Harry has been spending most of his time with Viktor and his friends; even Ron has started joining them. She wonders if they feel as rattled with all those new people and experiences as she does. She wonders how Cedric, who was partnered with his cousin and house mate is doing. Not that she doubts Cedric. Or Sue.

_It will be fun to talk about everything when all this is over, compare how each team solved their clues, and how we all prepared. _When everything is over, in about six months time. Considering all that has already happened this year –

_Don't be nervous. You and Fleur are prepared. So will be the others. It is going to be interesting, you'll see. Fleur will be circling above the lake and I will find whatever it will be that we have to fetch and then she will carry us out.  
><em>

Imagine her feelings when she finds herself in deep, almost black water. Tied, in true style, to a boulder on the bottom of the lake, without her gillyweed and without her wand. It is not only the water that keeps her frozen. When she manages a look around she wishes she hadn't. Harry and Sue are there with her, ropes tying their legs to boulders. They are not moving, however. Their eyes are closed and they look –

_They are asleep,_ says a voice. Hermione starts and finds herself looking at.

Herself.

_**_**~~o~**_~**_


	16. Lights in the darkness

If I were doing this for profit I would not be allowed to take already published chapters down. This is the third version of the current chapter, which means that I have done it. Therefore, no money is being made with this fooling around with JRK's action figures.

q.e.d.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 10, wherein people are getting mixed up. <strong>  
><em>

_Harry Potter realises that he is dreaming, and that he is in one of _those_ dreams. _

_He sighs and considers his surroundings. He seems to be in the middle of a Quidditch game. No, he is not, he is just flying, but he is in Quidditch gear. The sky around him is brilliantly blue. Far bellow, the Great Lake is unnaturally clear. The Giant Squid is doing something but what? Harry knows that he wants to know, but try as he might to fly lower, the broom stays where it is. _

_Right, Harry thinks and grits his teeth. He knows what to do. There must be something that 'here', in this case the clear blue sky, has in common with 'there'; in this case the lake._

_The unnaturally clear lake. There, that wasn't too hard, was it, thinks Harry as the air around him turns out to always have been water. Just as he had known it would; he is getting really good at this, Harry thinks contentedly. Good enough to have kept his broom through the outward change of metaphors. _

_Now, which way to go? A gigantic tentacle enters his field of vision from the left. A lace doily is draped over the tentacle. The word 'trouble' embroidered in elaborate Gothic letters. Blood red. Ever so grateful for the pointer Harry turns his broom. _

_**O**_

Hermione is contemplating herself. Her other self.

Her legs are tied to a rock. Her hair is billowing around her head.

She is floating in the water just a couple of feet away. Her hair is short and grey.

Hermione concentrates on the real parts. That is to say, on the input from senses that aren't her treacherous eyes.

She feels the pressure of the water surrounding her, but not, strangely, its temperature. She can breath but knows that she had better not try speaking. And she sees all too clearly in this place that should be pitch dark.

_It's a dream,_ Hermione decides relieved.

Because, really, she understands why she would be here, but not why she would be able to see anything. Clearly, she is meant to be rescued by Fleur, just as Harry and Susan are meant to be rescued by Viktor and Cedric respectively. She can easily imagine a accident with the protective potions, resulting in her being wide awake. Unlike Harry and Susan who may not be comfortable but are definitely asleep. All that is plausible. But she can discern her surroundings, and that, somehow, isn't.

And that means that the whole situation, plausible as it – mostly – seems, must be part of a dream.

Her older counterpart – and she is _old_. Hermione can discern deep wrinkles in her face – shakes her head. She bobs up and down in the water like an over-excited child, and the light moves with her. She is the source of the light.

_Way to convince me that this is not a dream,_ Hermione thinks sourly.

_**O**_

"You can't go in there, Harry," says a voice and Harry braces himself for the encounter with the owner of the voice. But should he really turn around and face him? Turn away from the diamond shaped bubble in the water, and from Hermione, who is in there. Chatting, it seems, with Jenny Green Teeth. Jenny had looked bad enough in the cauldron, when Viktor and Harry had destroyed their egg. In person, Jenny turns out to be much bigger than any cauldron. About as tall as Hagrid but scary, as Hagrid never is; a creature made from dead driftwood and curiously alive seaweed. And Harry can't see her face right now but he remembers the razor-sharp teeth. All too well.

"Your friend is not in danger, Harry," says the voice. "Though you might want to ask her about what's happening in there. You two could swap secrets, see who has been doing more outlandish stuff."

Harry has been talking to the owner of the voice for some time now and knows better than answering immediately. The owner of the voice is socially challenged, you see. He can share information, and does that freely, but he cannot communicate emotions; though he may not have emotions to communicate.

Which is to say that Harry does not know if his alluding of Harry's and Hermione's secrets is meant as a joke, as a derisive comment about inferior minds, as a well-meant encouragement to share his secrets with a friend, or as something else entirely. True, the lack of recognisable emotion in that voice makes the presence of a passenger in his mind more bearable. Especially that particular passenger. Also, it turns out that Harry has – or acquired very quickly – an extremely well-organised mind.

The owner of the voice is a part of the wizard no longer known as Tom Riddle, or so the voice claims. He found himself residing in Harry's mind by way of his alter ego's spectacular bad luck and/or Harry's mother having been desperate enough to do – something. Riddle does not know what that could have been. Or so he claims. Voldemort never really researched means of protection for loved ones, he says. Harry would have no difficulties believing that, but since it is Riddle saying it, he doesn't.

(He reasons that most of Voldemort's victims had been somebody's loved ones. Surely Voldemort had had to look into the matter. From his thrice-damned point of view.)

So why didn't Harry present the Department of Mysteries with his own head on a platter when Riddle made his presence known?

Riddle made his presence known when Harry started practising the meditation exercises from the muggle book on runic magic. Harry has heard people saying that "the inside of your own mind is a scary place" and believes that they don't – as a rule – refer to psychic shards of psychopaths.

Riddle believes that having been embedded, as he is, in Harry's essence, has neutralised everything Harry himself would not have accepted. Harry's pure soul, he says, has cleansed him.

Needless to say, Harry does not believe in his ability to Remove Even Persistent Dark Lord Stains (TM).

But Riddle is a handy gold mine of information, and Harry is beginning to appreciate Hermione's obsession with information. With Riddle always available and almost always able to provide crucial titbits of knowledge Harry is beginning to feel really and truly at home in the magical world. In the possessive sense of the word. The magical world is _his_.

Intellectually, he sees how that could have been Voldemort's objective and why he, Harry, should be wary of it, but the feeling is oh so hard to resist.

Riddle does not talk about Voldemort's vast Dark Arts . He claims that this knowledge is no longer there, has been purged with the destructive emotions that led to Voldemort acquiring it in the first place.

If that is true, Harry thinks, then it is amazing how much Riddle remembers. Because Riddle remembers, and has explained the basics of the creation of his cursed diary. Ironically, he used the same theory that would later enable the original Marauders' Map to talk to people who would try to use it. Countless people, Snape, Filch and Fred and George among them, can testify to the map's ability to 'see' who would try to read it and comment on that.

Intellectually, Harry sees that Riddle seems to be telling him that much of Voldemort's power was not dark as such. That much of it was simple knowledge that Harry might want, too. For purer reasons that Voldemort did, of course. If Riddle were trying to trap him then this would be a great way to do it.

Thoughts, relevant and not, dart through Harry's mind like tiny fish:

Sirius and Remus were happy to explain how they made the map and confirmed that the diary may have been like an infinitely more malicious application of the same principles.

Riddle does not speak without being asked. He does not seem interested in making Harry doubt his own sanity, or take over by confusing Harry out of his wits. He hasn't offered little corruptions, such as making Harry 'cheat' in school by using his knowledge instead of studying himself.

Harry looks longingly at Hermione, sitting inside the impenetrable diamond of her own dream, talking to her own monsters, and wishes he could tell her everything.

_**O**_

"Your friend has found us," says the older Hermione and points.

After a moment Hermione turns to that direction and sees faux-Percy. Whatever. She knows this is a dream and she suspected already that it was one of the more surreal ones. Sooner or later she will wake up. Obviously.

"That's no friend of mine," she says drily.

Riddle looks crestfallen.

"Really? Refresh my memory, please. What did Harry do? "

Having already worked out that it is one of_ those_ dreams, Hermione is not perturbed to hear her older counterpart declare that white is black, good is evil and Harry James Potter is Tom Marvolo Riddle. She toys with the idea of letting the dream continue in whatever absurd direction it is headed to and discards it. If her subconscious mind needs a good cleansing and straightening then she might just as well start with it.

"Tom Riddle is not Harry," she declares with all the conviction that went into "and yet it moves."

"I remember," the older Hermione says relieved. "He just told you about his 'passenger'." Her smile falters when she sees Riddle and the younger Hermione looking at her in utter confusion. She looks from one to the other:

"He didn't?"

_**O**_

"I believe," says Riddle in that emotionless voice, "that the image of Jenny Green Teeth signifies – "

"No psychoanalysis, thank you very much," Harry snaps. "I wonder what they are talking about," he continues. "As I see it, even if Hermione will later remember what she was dreaming while I dreamed this, her own dream imagery won't have anything in common with mine."

"This is where you are wrong. I believe that what you see is a mostly accurate depiction of an actual event. Taking place right now."

"You believe that monster is really out there somewhere with my friend," Harry manages to say after a moment or two.

"Both of you are at the bottom of the Great Lake of Hogwarts, waiting to be rescued by your respective champions, " Riddle answers too-bloody-unperturbed.

"And Jenny Green Teeth," Harry reminds him with growing exasperation.

Riddle remains unperturbed "She's not that dangerous." He sounds a little like a robot trying to comfort someone: "Hermione will manage. You yourself have faced worse."

"Yes," says Harry. "You."

"True."

"I don't suppose you have advice for me," Harry asks after a while.

"What about?"

"That," snaps Harry. "This thing! And Hermione! About that!"

"Harry. You are asleep."

"Then tell me how to wake up, you useless bastard!"

"Harry. Hermione is fine. You do not need to save anyone," Riddle says.

_**O**_

"What passenger," Hermione and Riddle-but-possibly-Harry demand in unison; his voice, Hermione notes automatically is not Riddle's. It is not exactly Harry's either, but it s most definitely not Riddle's. But why should Harry appear as a future Dark Wizard? Aren't dreams supposed to make sense, on some level?

_Some level_, she thinks darkly. _Not necessarily this one._

_**O**_

"I want to wake up," Harry says mutinously. "I am not staying here any longer."

"Here being where, Harry," Riddle asks. Weird. Harry never knew him to be slow before. His paranoia kicks in and he does not answer. Just to be on the safe side.

"Maybe I should explain my question," Riddle says helpfully and starts explaining about symbolic levels of existence, existential symbolism, symbolically levelled existences… Harry has a vague suspicion that you had to be crazy to make sense of it, and imitates Ron's of-course-I-am-listening-to-you-mum face.

"...or, to put it shortly and frighteningly imprecise, the state in which you will wake up depends on what it is that you wish to leave behind you right now."

Harry would love to shout 'everything!', but what with Riddle being around... and everything... it seems safer to think before he speaks.

_**O**_

"It's been a while since I was you so I can't be sure, but I would have thought I was more curious than that," the older Hermione says.

Hermione thinks something rude and the older Hermione tut-tuts, thereby confirming the realisation that they are not talking but thinking. And hearing each other's thoughts. Not that she gives a damn-

The older Hermione tut-tuts again. Hermione decides to maybe stop chiding Ron and Harry for their language, unless she is right in doing so, of course. Now however she needs to ask several questions. But where to begin? And which questions might produce answers?

She settles for: "Who is he?"

"He looks like Harry James Potter to me. Well, young man, who do you think you are?"

The older Hermione looks encouragingly at looks-like-Riddle-but-might-be-Harry. Looks-like-Riddle-but-might-be-Harry has his eyes riveted on Hermione:

"I am your friend," he says quietly.

It could be dream... It could be Harry... he sounds hurt... her own hostility makes her feel a shamed, which is ridiculous, because he could be the person he appears to be...

Who was friendly enough. She certainly thought so at the time. Why was she there, anyway?

_No, no, _she chides herself._ Stick to one question. The central question. If this is a dream, and I strongly assume that to be the case, then there is a reason that a Riddle-lookalike is claiming to be Harry, and my friend. What is the reason?_

"What is it that Harry Potter has in common with Tom Riddle?"

The darkness turns into light. Suddenly everything is very, very bright.

_**O**_

"What is in this for you," Harry finally asks Riddle.

Riddle smiles a thin but not unpleasant smile: "Remaining inside your mind is the only way I can exist right now. Ceasing to exist is not an inviting idea. Knowing what Arts my alter ego must have been practising while we were still in one piece makes it even less so."

"What do you mean?"

"He is still out there."

"And you are stuck inside my mind. Or have you found a way out," asks Harry.

"The way presented itself. I do not know how that happened. It must be your and your friends doing," Riddle answers solemnly.

"What does Hermione have to do with you?"

"I sense a way out. The most probable reason is that I am close to another part of my old self. My old self is not embodied so this part must also be residing inside the essence of a host. At the moment your friend is the only possible host around."

"No. Fucking. Way."

Riddle then does something uncharacteristically lifelike. He sighs.

"I'd elucidate but you won't listen, as you never listen to me. Never mind that. The question is, do I want to get out, and do you want me to get out?"

"You are asking me," Harry asks dumbfounded.

"Of course I ask you. I owe you more than a passing debt, Harry. My essence,such as it is, is tied to yours by way of your will. I cannot do anything that you do not want me to do. The question now is, what is that other part of my old self like? If it is like me then it has spend a significant amount of time being purified. My joining such a part might be in your interest. It could just as well be a parasite that somehow latched to your friend, possibly by way of an artefact like the diary. My old self is bound to have created more than one of those."

Harry, doing precisely what Riddle says he never does, carefully considers what he has heard. One of the things he has heard stands out strangely:

"Do you have any magic at the moment?"

"No. I can help you direct your own if you allow me to do so, but I do not have magic. There is not enough of me here to hold it."

"Didn't you tell me that you have been sort of growing yourself back? That this is why you have changed so much, because you've drawing energy from me all the time?"

"That's another long lecture about the connection between physical mass and essence that I'd love to give," says Riddle and this time he smiles for real. "Let's suffice to say that I have none, and do not think that I could acquire any. If I were to leave your essence I would be a ghost."

"A ghost or an undead wraith like the one I met three years ago?"

"A ghost, I believe. Of course, I could then still meet the rest of my old self and be absorbed into it. Since I would still be tied to your will that would probably destroy me for good," Riddle concludes. He is not at all surprised that Harry is listening as he has never listened before.

_**O**_

"And then there was none," Hermione says slowly. The dark around her is now total. Hermione tries half-heartedly to sort her thoughts. Time passes. And then there is light from above, and Fleur is diving towards her.

_**O**_

Madam Pomfrey is standing on the pier, blankets and Pepper Up Potion at the ready. The judges' chairs are hovering some ten feet above the shoreline of the Black Lake. Headmaster Dumbledore made it back from the ICW in time for the event. He is now sitting in his usual wingback chair and looking at the lake through a very handsome golden combiscope, an instrument that could 'see' as well as project richly detailed images. A very useful and valuable instrument, but not something she'd take out of its case when what she really needed was a telescope, thinks Madame Maxime, who is watching Dumbledore.

The main use of combicopes is taking mind probes from afar. Dumbledore is probably checking the state of mind of the contestants, making sure that they are not panicking, or something. Or making sure that the assistants are still asleep. Or some other perfectly good and admirable reason to be using a device that is traditionally seen as questionable.

_Oh for goodness sake_, Madam Maxime admonishes herself. So she does not like Dumbledore. Letting that dislike taint every single thought about him will only end in making her jumpy and prone to do stupid things. She knows better than that.

Madame Maxime leans back and looks around. The envoys from the various Ministries (Iceland for Durmstrang; the Nordic countries surely are serious about not letting slip the actual location of the school) are also floating above the shoreline.

She checks the time. The champions had been in the water for eleven minutes. The judges expect the first one to return in maybe another ten minutes.

Nine minutes.

Some sort of disturbance in the water, about 500 meters from the pier. Madame Maxime adjusts her glasses for a look under the water. Ah, it is Fleur and Hermione; they have reached the surface. They are still a long way from the shore, though. Where are the other two champions, then?

Hm, the two young men are only now reaching their hostages. (Well, assistants, but the poor children did not really a get the chance to assist, did they? This task must have been such a let down for all of them, she really hopes the other two will be more interesting. They are currently being redesigned. The task in the lake was the only one of the original three that worked for teams as well as for single champions.)

Aha! Mr Krum has reached Mr Potter. Apparently Mr Krum had transformed into some sort of fish. Excellent thinking, she has to give him that. He is not able to turn back partially, however and turn back into a human for a moment he has to, in order to cut the rope that keeps Mr Potter in place. Holding this rope with his jaws Mr Krum – a fish again – now darts back.

Very interesting tactic: the time loss would mean little, for whatever fish he is, it is fast, and he has made his form big enough for all dangerous lake creatures to stay away. Truly excellent thinking. Oh, but the Giant Squid notices him now! It could not help being interested in such a big fish, could it? Oh dear! Mr Krum had better be _very_ fast. Really, how come Mr Potter had not warned his champion?

Mr Diggory on the other hand knew about the Squid and its disinterest in humans and chose his own tactic accordingly. He used the Bubble Head charm, chose the fastest route and trusted on his speed and his ability to deal with anything he'd find on the way. He was right to, it seems. He was slower to arrive than Mr Krum, but he did not loose time with transfigurations. On the way in his chosen route led him directly into a waiting pack of grindylows but he chased them away by hitting them with a spray of iron pellets. No, they would not dare to try Mr Diggory again, he would swim back unhindered! Daring but very well-executed, Madame Maxime thinks approvingly.

Fleur is the only one who played absolutely safe, with staying up high, out of reach of the grindylows, searching the bottom of the lake with a locating spell and swimming back with a propelling spell. Madame Maxime approves of playing safe, too. But why return to the surface? She would have been safe enough in the water if she remained at half the distance between bottom and surface. Miss Granger's airskin must have been damaged, but how? They are very durable.

Madame Maxime cannot help that now but she will find out later. At least Fleur is making liberal use of the propelling charm, and making good time.

The Giant Squid has definitely caught up with Mr. Krum who has transfigured himself back to human, and is treating the intrusive black tentacle with shock waves.

Mr Hvite – hovering next to her on a piano stool – exhales audibly.

It is a pity that the students could not see anything the action, it is more captivating than Madame Maxime would have expected it to be. Does Dumbledore plan to show them a recorded version? Combiscopes take excellent pictures. Her glasses could produce a record, but not as fine as the combicope's, and she is not sure about Hvite's opera glasses, either... maybe they should use a pensieve? If all jurors shared their memories they would get a nice enough picture for the students.

Hm. Mr Krum's fish was truly well chosen, he has almost caught up with Mr. Diggory. And Fleur's propelling spells are working well for her, she is closing in from above. It's neck and neck now, isn't it?

"_And the first champion to return is Cedric Diggory!"_

The Hogwarts students erupt into applause.

"_And now Viktor Krum, barely two seconds, behind! And now Miss Fleur Delacour! Our champions are truly well-matched!"_

And so on. Madama Maxime is not paying attention to the speaker. Madame Maxime is looking at her champion who is talking to the medi-witch. She cannot hear them, of course, but Fleur looks angry and Miss Granger – Miss Granger is awake? She is, and she is refusing the attentions of the medi-witch.

Madame Maxime taps her wand on her chair, which goes into a steep dive. A moment later she is stepping on the pier. Miss Granger is telling the medi-witch that she does not want to take a Pepper Up Potion: "I have a splitting headache already, I can't take a Pepper Up on top of that, my head will explode."

That is right, as everyone with half a brain knows, but the medi-witch, having to look after too many people at once is too harassed to discuss treatment with the patient: "Miss Granger," she says sternly, "you've just spend a night in freezing cold water, you absolutely need to – "

"Then use that wand and do a warming spell," Hermione interrupts her heatedly.

"Healer, please let me relieve you of these two stubborn girls," Madame Maxime says firmly. No need to leave the poor woman wrestle with the moods of one obviously healthy patient when she should be looking after the other two children.

_**O**_

Harry wants to talk to Hermione but that intrusive idiot from the Prophet simply isn't leaving. Thankfully, Viktor has an idea of how to talk to reporters and takes it upon him to do the talking for the group. Now, if he can get him off their hides, preferably before Harry strangles him...

Viktor revived Harry the moment they reached they pier, in time for Harry to hear that his best friend spend at least part of the night awake. Hermione is far from easily scared but she was uncharacteristically hostile with poor Madam Pomfrey. He'll have to talk her into an examination, later. He needs to know that she is all right. Also, he really needs to talk to her. If only someone would do something about that reporter!

Then he is assaulted by a stupid mutt. Apparently, family is allowed to come to Hogwarts for the tasks.

_**O**_

It turns out that Fleur chose to swim to the surface because she found her assistant awake and worried about her having spend too much time alone in the darkness. Madame Maxime cannot, in good conscience, dock points for that. Nor do the other judges do it.

Professor Dumbledore clearly enjoys speaking about about the contestants abd their respective tactics. Cedric and Susan are beaming as he explains how flawless planning and admirable execution won Team Hufflepuff the first task.

Teams Durmstrang and Beauxbatons tie for second. Viktor was faster than Fleur but his plan shows clearly that he had been unaware of the Giant Squid. Three of four judges agree that Viktor's improvised plan B and impressive Transfiguration work more than make up for the slight lack of foreseeing. Hvite disagrees, or wants to demonstrate Durmstrang principle and docks one point. Viktor agrees with his headmaster, or also wants to demonstrate Durmstrang principle and nods approvingly.

The contestants then shake hands for the benefit of the Daily Prophet photographer. They are less forthcoming with the reporter. They talk about the tournament, and the tournament only. Cedric and Susan are adorably modest. Fleur and Viktor claim dissatisfaction with their own performances. Of course they are perfectly happy being paired as they are. Obviously, the Triwizard Tournament is an excellent occasion to strengthen international ties. They are _honoured_ to be representing their schools.

(The reporter cannot get anything personal out of them. The boss really needs to find a way around the ban for Rita Skeeter.)

Viktor mentions by the by that he believes that the task would have made for a nice show. So sad that it took place in a dark lake. The reporter chuckles: yes, yes, the public has to be taken into consideration.

The public is taken into consideration, even if that is a mere afterthought: after a short discussion among the judges and ministry officials, Dumbledore announces that he will look at the recordings from the various monitoring devices and produce a short view for the benefit of the student body.

_**O**_

Harry does not get the chance to talk to Hermione that day, but he makes puppy eyes at her until she gives in and lets Madam Pomfrey examine her. Madam Pomfrey is all smiles (none of the silly children found a way to hurt themselves while they were asleep. Amazing.) and pronounces Hermione to be completely healthy, bar that headache. She gives her a potion for that, but only after opening it and checking the contents in front of the two surprised students.

(Madam Pomfrey is feeling horribly guilty for confusing her potions. The students had been meant to be given a sleeping draught and a Dreamless Sleep each. The latter was a precaution: sometimes, powerful sleeping draughts induce vivid dreams, or worse, nightmares. But Poppy must have confused the vials for Miss Granger was given two Dreamless Sleeps whereas Mr Potter got two sleeping draughts, and did not complain about nightmares at all. So much about precaution.)

Talking will have to wait. They are leaving for the Christmas Holidays. Thankfully, the Grangers are coming to Grimmauld Place on Boxing Day. Harry and Hermione are among the few Hogwarts students to go home for Christmas that year. The Yule Ball is taking place after Christmas and most students do not want to make the long journey home for less than three days with their families. Sirius however insisted that Harry returned for his his first 'proper Christmas' and therefore arranged for a Ministry issued two-way portkey. The quirks of being Mr Black, Sirius told the Grangers wryly. The Grangers, feeling that they are missing out on too much of their daughter's life already, do not object to this questionable use of privilege.

And so it comes that Harry and Hemrione miss a momentous event in the history of Hogwarts. One that Professor Dumbledore is exceedingly proud of. Because the student body should be able to share the experiences of the champions. He will make sure that the committee that is still working feverishly on the second and third task will take that into account. Yes, yes, providing a view of the first task was a splendid idea, if Albus Dumbledore may say so himself.

Cedric Diggory would beg to differ.

That night after the first task, with the moving combiscope pictures provided by the headmaster a new star rose in the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. Cedric Diggory swimming to the rescue of his cousin, wand brandished. Cedric, unleashing a spray of iron pellets on the advancing pack of grindylows. The magnified, err, _details_ of toned, wet, hardly dressed Cedrig Diggory.

Somewhere around the twentieth "ahhhh!" in so many seconds it started dawning on Cedric that this brand of admiration was more than he had bargained for. Ever. In hindsight, Viktor's decision to transfigure himself into a fish seemed like pure foreseeing genius. Viktor certainly spend dinner chatting animatedly with Draco and looking very pleased with himself. Could he have known when he planned for the task? Cedric spends that meal increasingly morose, starring at his plate and trying to ignore the whispers about his very dark blue but not quite black swimming trunks.

Cedric is among the top students of his year. He is the Hufflepuff Seeker, the team captain and all in all a prime example of the Nice Young Man. Now his fellow students are seeing him with new eyes.

Cedric is blessing his stars for the urgent Ministry business that forestalled his father's presence today. He can live with his dad's occasionally excessive pride. But his dad being proud of his boy, the stud? Merlin!

_**...ooOoo...**_


	17. Grimm Old Christmas I

I can't believe how many times I've written this chapter in the last year. And now I've gone and added to it as well.

Clearly I am not the – highly professional – author who owns this.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter 11, wherein there are many meetings, festive &amp; otherwise<strong>_

Hermione returns home for Christmas to find that 'home' has acquired magic wards. Exuberant wards:

"Hello, Harry Potter's Hermy!"

Hermione has met Kreacher and this is not him. Happily, she remembers that there is another house-elf who reveres Harry: "Dobby?"

"Harry Potter's Hermy knows Dobby," the creature squeals with delight. He is dressed in baby wear printed with colourful letters. They are Hermione's old clothes and as she is the only current Granger with magic Dobby is wearing them in order to magically bond with the family, though it has the additional advantage that Dobby wears proper clothes. Dobby's adoration for Harry Potter, which never waned, is now reaching new heights, as Dobby is firmly convinced that he owes all of his current luck to Harry.

"Dobby will see to Harry Potter's Hermy's kneazle! Harry Potter's Hermy and Harry Potter's Hermy's parents must go to dining room, Dobby has cooked for them! Dobby used Harry Potter's Hermy's mother's recipes!" A house-elf in near ecstasy is a strange sight, even for people who are used to them. Hermione is not, but she notices that her parents look magnificently nonchalant. Dobby cracks away. A moment later they hear him talk excitedly to Crookshanks.

"He is a wonderful cook," says Mr Granger. "Gets everything right at first try, no matter how exotic. Although he came to us as a first-class safety measure not as a cook. Something to do with wizards never remembering how powerful house-elves are, and with house-elves being able to draw magic from their family. If the familial ties as such are strong it does not matter that the only actual witch of said family resides hundreds of miles away."

"At least that is what Sirius and Remus told us," interjects Mrs Granger, "and seeing that Dobby is healthy and happy and, er, sane with us-"

Dobby cracks into the room, announces that it's almost time for dinner and cracks out again, and somehow the Granger living room does not look as it did before. A human butler would have looked out of place in their middle-class home. A house-elf has turned it into the room at the bottom of the rabbit hole. Thank goodness Crookshanks is too dignified to start disappearing while leaving insolent floating smiles behind.

Then there are the wards proper. The wards around her home are the work of a Brazilian witch whom Remus met during a recent scholarly trip to the Continent. Amelia Bones has inspected them and declared that the design is brilliant. Even without Remus's 'camouflage' layer around them which makes them look like more traditional English wards. To Hermione the wards are percussion music with occasional flutes and fiddles weaving a melody in and around the beat. Punctuated by a rather hectic cowbell that must be Dobby.

She is hearing magic. Clearer than ever, and what she hears is not noise, it is music. Maybe she should study musical theory... Hogwarts is a massive polyphonic ...chant? A fugue?

Dobby cracks in and announces dinner.

Her father is right, Dobby is an amazing cook. Also, the Grangers are absolutely delighted with the lack of chores. But. After dinner the three of them take a walk together and after they are safely away from Dobby's vast hearing range the elder Grangers confide that they worry about working him too much.

"He wanted one day off a month," her father says, shaking his head. "We convinced him to accept a free morning each week since it would be only a couple of hours each time, which is nowhere as restorative as a whole day off."

The Grangers are concerned. Dobby resists their efforts to treat him like a human being (with a short stature, greenish colouring and interesting magical skills). He is not supposed to be one, but how can he be sentient like a human and have the normal range of emotions without being the slightest bit human himself? The Grangers cannot help thinking like that. Dobby however fully expects to be treated worse than a dog: "I asked him what he likes to eat and he said that he won't need too many of our leftovers," Mrs Granger says indignantly.

For once Hermione cannot help. She has never read anything about house-elves, and it was not for lack of time spend reading. Hesitantly she shares Madame Maxime's theory that house-elves are bound by a magical contract. That sounds a lot like slavery, her father says flatly. Add it to the fact that nobody seems to know how to treat them well, or even care about treating them well...

"Dobby seems happy, doesn't he," Hermione says timidly. She does not want to think that badly of the magical world. However, tales about brownies and Heinzelmännchen don't really explain why sentient creatures would like to spend their lives as a indentured servants.

"I am not saying that we aren't applying our standards to a situation where they don't belong," says her mother. "But we need to examine the situation carefully."

"Guess you get that from me," quips Hermione, and her parents laugh and Hermione promises to find out what she can.

The simplest avenue is talking to Dobby, but personal questions lead nowhere. He loves socks and work and reveres Harry Potter who freed him and send him to serve "a great family". That part sounds good enough. Dobby started working soon after he was born. When house-elves have get really old they have one descendant whom they train to take over their position. That part sounds scary. The worst part is that questions make Dobby deeply uncomfortable, as both Evelyn and Ernest have found out.

Thankfully, there are distractions, such as telling her parents everything about the the Yule Ball. Hermione's friends had a lot of fun being asked out. Lavender is going with Dean (he asked), Parvati with Ron (she hinted that she would say yes if he asked) and Padma with Anthony Goldstein (Ancient Runes were involved).

Susan is Harry's date and Hermione thinks that there is real interest involved.

Understandably her parents are more interested in Hermione's date. "Viktor Krum, world renowned Quidditch player" doesn't sound like too enthusiastic an introduction, so she tries again: Viktor Krum, fellow Triwizard champion and probably very nice person, or so Harry and Ron say; yes, that sounds much better. The truth is that between private wars with Snape, ancient magical artefacts taking an unhealthy interest in Harry, the tournament, and a certain talking castle taking an interest in _her._.. thinking about the fourth year so far makes her head spin. She has been too distracted to engage in too many normal activities. Like, say, appreciating nice fellow Triwizard champions.

She is awfully tense, all the time, and she knows it. Even now she is still waiting for something to happen, and she's at home, her normal non-magical home. An enthusiastic house-elf and some unique new wards aside.

Hermione sighs. She'll have to start mediating, or do yoga, or both. Then again, the last time she had considered mediating she had failed completely, but had discovered "fading". And all of a sudden Hermione wonders if her parents would notice it if she faded from their presence. Then she wonders why she would wonder. How could her parents notice magic when other people, wizards and witches did not?

...but the thought is there, gnawing at her mind with some determination. Well, checking is easy enough. All three of them are right here, right?

Hermione fades.

Her mum screams in alarm.

**Ξ**

There are explanations, lengthy and detailed. Dobby makes hot chocolate with port for all of them and the Grangers agree that Hogwarts has a damn good taste for a heap of stones; then they experiment a little.

Hermione has to fade after leaving a note on the table.

Hermione has to fade after leaving a note written with huge bright red letters.

Hermione has to fade after her parents write the note themselves.

The memory of having written the note is the only thing that keeps them from panicking, but they are still frightened when she fades. Her parents have no 'premonitions' when she performs regular magic with a wand (the MOM trace having been rendered useless by the wards, Hermione can try out some spells). However, both of them claim having 'known something' whenever she did accidental magic as a child. They say that they only talked about it after that first visit from Professor McGonagall and believe that they must have rudimentary magical abilities. One chromosome instead of two, so to say.

All that is hardly conclusive, and it is very very late by now. Hermione and her parents shake the magical cobwebs from their respective brains and go to bed. The following day is to be spend in the traditional way, but quietly and on Boxing Day they are due at 12 Grimmauld Place.

Best laid plans. In the morning Dobby serves coffee, toast and a letter by owl. Amelia Bones is deeply sorry, but she is needed at the Ministry. Urgently. On Christmas. Can Susan stay with them today?

Amelia Bones is one of three friends the Grangers have in the magical world, and she is a good friend. Her advice is indispensable. Consequently they are delighted to have Susan over.

Since the Grangers already feel that something is up, they are not too surprised when Susan appears with Cedric in tow. Dobby is instructed to make breakfast for five instead of three and Evelyn Granger asks Susan to wake up Hermione who is sleeping in. Cedric seems to be the better source for information, and Cedric is in fact eager to explain:

"It's two different problems, really. One is that all changes in the Triwizard Tournament require amendments of the original contract between the participating countries, and the Ministry isn't staffed to be in constant communication with several other ministries. They are practically under siege right now. Offices who have nothing to do with anything international are required to help out. Most of the kids from ministry families stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays."

"Then why are you and Susan here," Mr Granger asks the obvious question.

"We hoped to see our families for a day at least, but that's where the second problem comes in. Aunt Amelia is having an awful case of Auror nerves, and it seems that Susan has it too."

Cedric explains that "Auror nerves" are a by product of being a good Auror, or of being a living Auror, as opposed to a dead one, as the Aurors themselves insist. "The greatest Auror in living memory is a complete nut-case," he says apologetically. "Mad-Eye, they call him. He really is great. People who remember the war won't hear a word against him, but only the most grateful will invite him for tea, if you catch my drift."

The Grangers do, and they understand. But he says fourteen-year-old Susan is suffering from "policeman's wife syndrome". Or are they overreacting: "Does that happen regularly?"

"Oh no, not at all," Cedric assures Mrs Granger. "She hasn't been like that since we were small children and she always knew it when I was about to get into trouble." Mrs Diggory and Susan's late mother had been cousins and friends; Susan and Cedric had grown up together. "Sue was a regular little mind-reader back then, but thankfully it stopped once she came to Hogwarts. I guess there were too many people around and she got confused."

"Wait, Susan was prescient as a kid," asks Mr Granger before he remembers that Divination, while said to exist is rare and that his magical friends do not like it.

"No, no, I was joking! It was just me. I mean, she just knew me very well. Sue is very empathetic, and we spend a lot of time together, so I guess she just learned to read me very fast. No funny voices and no predictions, and she never had any interest in Divination," he adds, as if a lack of interest indicated a lack of talent, thinks Mrs Granger, but stays on topic: "So it's just nerves."

"Yes. Aunt Amelia's stressed with all the irregularities. She doesn't like irregularities. On top of everything she's had to investigate Karkaroff's death. Some idiots tried to blame the Goblins for that and she had to take over to keep them from creating an incident. The Goblins do not take accusations lightly. Anyway, what I meant to say is that Aunt Amelia is stressed and Sue is sad and worried that the evil Goblins will stress her Auntie even more than the regular evil wizards."

In fact Sue trust in her Auntie's ability to kick assorted asses. Furthermore, she knows that the Goblins are guaranteed to be absolutely correct in their dealings with the Aurors; Susan is concerned with the fact that there_ is_ an investigation. Wizards know better than to mess with Goblins, yet suddenly somebody goes and all but insults Gringotts. Over a known Death Eater. Via the Daily Prophet. As Susan is right now ranting. There's nothing like a good rant to wake up a friend who did not expect you, right?

"They did it on purpose! Everyone who knows anything about the Ministry would know that they'd have to get involved, and that it would end on Aunt Amelia's lap, and they meant to do it," she is furiously whispering at the only one of her friends who shares her interest in politics and degree of paranoia over loved ones.

_She's turned into Harry,_ thinks Hermione, _and what's worse, she's right. _

Crookshanks chooses that moment to leap onto the bed and meow sternly at his human and her friend.

"Are you feeling better now," Hermione asks Susan, and Susan blushes and smiles: "Yes. Sorry, but I had to get it all off my chest, you know."

The two girls hug and Hermione finally gets out of bed and into day mode. She is at home and two good friends are with her and they'll have fun and she and Sue can swap conspiracy theories over tea. Her discussion with her parents can wait for now.

Over breakfast Susan and Cedric entertain their hosts by detailing their attempts to find dress robes that match those of their respective dates.

"Do your robes match Viktor's, honey" Mrs Granger bemusedly asks her daughter.

And Susan and Cedric realise that they have a problem and it might be too late to fix it: "They don't have to match. It's just that it is considered impolite if they clash completely," Cedric finally says, and he does not have to explain it further because Hermione instantly knows that it is one of those things that wizards just know, and she doesn't, and she also knows that things like that are her absolute weakness, because she is muggleborn and determined to show that she can. Fit. In.

"I don't even know what he's going to wear," Hermione admits meekly. "I had no idea the robes had to match."

Evelyn thinks fast: "First of all we need to find out what Viktor will wear. Your robes might match already. Will an owl be fast enough? We have no floo access." Sirius, Remus and Amelia having advised against having an address that any muggleborn-hater could find out.

Cedric smiles his most charming smile. Only Susan knows it means he's relieved: "Durmstrang students have a dress version of their school uniform. They will all wear that. It's brown velvet with, er, gold tassels and stuff. I've seen it on Aunt Amelia's pictures."

Susan is delighted: "Yes, that picture my dad and that friend of theirs!"

"You are much closer than Hogwarts. How do we get that picture? Could Dobby bring it over?"

"It's mounted on the wall," Susan explains, "but we could go and look at it there. Cedric can apparate us!"

"He can? Both of you?" Ernest asks in an odd voice and poor Cedric instinctively hastens to him that he is utterly harmless:

"I'll take Hermione and come back for Susan. It's not far, I will be just a minute. Hermione can take a picture of the picture and we will be back before the coffee is cold."

"You do that," Evelyn says brightly. She really needs to have a quiet word with her husband.

And this is how moments later Hermione finds herself in the Bones's garden.

The safe distance from the glass panes of the big French windows is marked by an oak. Hermione walks around it to look at the house. Into the house, where Amelia Bones is is walking up and down. Amelia is here, and Sue was right, Amelia looks mightily stressed. Is she throwing crockery at the wall?

Hermione takes a step. Is Amelia shouting? Cedric has told Hermione to wait as the house is warded, but another step shouldn't hurt. Amelia is not alone, and she is shouting at her company. Bad moment to visit, Hermione thinks.

Then Susan gasps, and Hermione turns to find Cedric restraining his cousin: "No! You must not distract Amelia!"

"But she's outnumbered, " Susan wails.

"She has them well under control, but if you distract her one of them will manage to hit her. We need to get proper help."

"Cedric," Hermione hears herself say from a huge distance: "They are wearing Auror robes. Who are you going to call?"

"I'll get my dad, Susan stay here dammit! Hermione, hold her, I need to get help!"

Susan however is well beyond reasoning. She is kicking like a mule, and Cedric knows that he has to stun her, but he cannot get his wand without letting Susan go: "Hermione, help me!"

The next thing Cedric knows is that Susan has stopped kicking. He is cold. Both he and Susan have turned into ice.

"We are now completely unnoticeable," says a voice he barely recognises as Hermione's. "We will pass the wards and go into your house. Don't bother running, we have all the time in the world."

Cedric looks at the house. Amelia and her attackers have turned into ice as well. No, they are moving, but extremely, excruciatingly slowly, and he knows without a question that he can take all three of them out, that a toddler could take all three of them out.

"There is one for each of us," says Susan who sounds a bit strangled but mostly like herself. "Disarm and trip them, Auntie can do the rest."

Trust Susan to be thorough, even against foes who cannot move, thinks Cedric, but they are already on their way and Susan has them past the wards and the doors open without anyone waking up from their glacial speed and it is very simple, disarm and trip and Auntie indeed does the rest. She petrifies and stuns them. Remarkably fast, too, or is Cedric ...thawing? Before he can say a word Amelia grabs something at her throat – time-turner! – and disappears. A moment later the glass panes explode exactly as fast as glass should explode and four people burst into the room.

Three of them re-stun the fallen attackers for good measure but the fourth conjures a huge cracking shield in front of Cedric, Susan and Hermione. Cedric throws his wand on the floor: "It's Diggory Professor Moody!"

Two more wands follow his but the shield stays where it is while Alastor Moody comes closer and inspects them. Hermione, mimicking Cedric and Sue has thrown her wand on the floor and is holding her hands up. The shield disappears and Moody's wand is pointing directly at her:

"Your other wand too, missy."

"I only have the one," says Hermione.

"Aunt! It's Hermione, tell him!" Susan shouts but Amelia shakes her head. Still, after another moment the wand sinks.

"Your Aunt knows better than to tell me what to do," says the Auror. "It's all right, I can see that you are telling the truth."

Neither of the three students moves.

"Alastor it really is them," says Amelia. "I know about Hermione's spell creations."

"You do? I didn't," Hermione says rather sheepishly. "Sue? What did you tell your aunt?"

Amelia smiles: "First things first Hermione. Tonks and Cedric, take the girls to the Grangers and stay there. Let no-one enter the house unless they are with Alastor. That includes me. Tonks, I will talk to your cousin and we'll see from there."

"Auntie, we need to see one of your pictures before we go," says Susan with rare presence of mind. "The one of dad and his friend from Norway in Durmstrang dress uniform."

The tall black Auror guffaws loudly but Amelia waves her wand and shortly afterwards a piece of paper flies into the room. Susan catches it and the three students return to the Grangers, with a picture and a brand new Auror bodyguard.

They make it while their coffees are still hot.

**Ξ**

Susan sinks into her chair, slaps the photograph onto the table and grabs her cup. She empties it like a seasoned caffeine junkie, then fixes her friend with a glare that would make her Aunt proud: "Spill."

Hermione knows that she'll never have Susan's or Cedric's situational awareness or reflexes. Never. She is so slow that despite performing hitherto unknown magic, being cornered by the god incarnate of paranoia and learning that her friends are aware of her innermost secrets her heartbeat has never gone up a notch.

She summons the photo – wandlessly – and looks at it. Edgar Bones looks a lot like his sister, the similarity accentuated by their having the same cropped haircut. He does not look like Susan, except around the chin and mouth. His very fair friend wears maroon velvet which does not suit him at all but will look fantastic on Viktor, if Hermione is any judge.

"That's Mr Hvite," she observes calmly.

"I know," says Susan.

"I am glad that we got this. My robes would have been a disaster. Why do you think I am creating spells and why did you tell your aunt about it? "

"Why don't we start with why Auror Tonks is here," says Evelyn in entirely too polite a voice.

Cedric sighs deeply and recounts how they went to look at a picture and ran into an ambush on the Head of the DMLE which they then foiled by way of a very mysterious spell.

Auror Tonks takes up the story of how Madam Bones and Kingsley Shacklebolt apparated at her breakfast table almost two hours ago and took her to get Alastor Moody who, she assures everyone present, is the sort of help you only resort to for extreme acts of god:

"Mad-Eye is retired but did not need prompting. Madam Bones being attacked by colleagues inside her own home is too much like the last war."

Auror Tonks did not become the first Auror of the corps in years because she's subtle.

"Hermione, remind me again why you are not leaving tomorrow for Malta," Ernest asks through clenched teeth.

"Because whoever is behind this did not want to hurt Amelia. They might even be helping her," says Hermione. "Don't you think, Sue?"

"I bloody well don't," Sue says flatly and Hermione sighs: "Sue, even I could see that they were no match for her. If they'd attacked me like that I would have brought down the ceiling on them. And Amelia is so much better than I will ever be."

"She's right about that, Sue. I told you she had them well under control. Amelia obviously wanted them alive and that was her only difficulty, because there were three of them," says Cedric.

"Unless they wanted her alive and were tiring her out," Susan spits. "Why won't you tell me how you learned to do that spell Hermione? And while you are at it, tell me why we were there, because that was too much of an accident, and don't think I believe that Lavender didn't tell you about the robes, that's impossible! Don't you think I did not notice that you are thinking about strange magic and doing, doing-"

Hermione jumps out of her chair and goes to hug Susan, who is crying and shaking and the council of war is adjourned. Evelyn manoeuvres the three friends onto the sofa so that both Cedric and Hermione can hug Susan; then drags her husband and Tonks out of the room for a quick course on crisis management: "Let's try to keep our panic to ourselves, shall we? Susan just witnessed an attack on her aunt and guardian. She is in shock, and reminding her of the family she's already lost will not help, so don't talk about wars and fleeing Britain!" Tonks turns into a very good human approximation of drowned rat, thereby deflecting the moment, but assures Evelyn that she can control her mouth and proceeds with a quick estimation:

"Madam Bones alerted her people before we we went round to her house. She knows who are really her people, you know. Those three will be interrogated and slapped into high security cells and tried as soon as possible. She has the three of us as witnesses, too. Your daughter is right, the only thing that will come out is that Amelia can loose are a couple of Aurors with questionable alliances."

"But what if Susan was right, if they were trying to abduct Amelia," Ernest asks with a frown.

"Again, what Hermione said. Amelia could have killed them in self-defense. She would have killed at least one if the fight had gone much longer."

"So this will really strengthen her?"

"Definitely. I am not sure why Hermione thinks that someone is actively helping Madam Bones, but she gets to appoint three new Aurors and she'll choose them carefully."

"Like she chose you, Auror Tonks?"

Tonks grins: "You are friends with my cousin Sirius and his godson. Hasn't he told you about us? My mum was chucked out of her family for marrying my dad, Sirius just reinstated us."

"Light wizards, dark wizards, I swear this is worse than Lord of the Rings," mumbles Ernest. Seeing his wife's glare he adds: "I'll be good." He shakes his head: "Poor Susan."

"Look at the bright side," says Tonks and her hair becomes purple and spiky again: "She'll learn that spell, and whatever else your little genius invents and make mincemeat of anyone who dares to think ill of her auntie. Have you any idea how big that is, a spell-creator at fifteen?"

Both Grangers sigh: "Let's make hot chocolate for everyone." _And see if Hermione will tell you the rest, _they think to themselves.

Crack!

"Dobby has Hermione's mother's and father's chocolate! Dobby will serve now!"

Crack!

"That's the happiest elf I've ever seen," comments Tonks. "Mind you, they are not meant to be seen, but this guy is funny, nothing like most elves I've seen elsewhere."

"He looks happy to you," Evelyn asks in surprise.

"Very happy. I think he likes you."

"Well, that's something. OK, let's go back to these vigilantes of ours," says Evelyn.

"Now don't you go give them ideas," complains Ernest, and his wife laughs.

**Ξ**

Susan has calmed down. She and Cedric pronounce the hot chocolate to be "brilliant" and think that Ernest jokes when he says that it is a Hogwarts recipe. They've never drunk something like that in Hogwarts, after all.

Evelyn proceeds to repeat Hermione's story of meeting "Hogwarts" as she remembers it from the night before.

It takes a moment or two for Cedric and Susan to believe that the Grangers aren't joking. It takes another moment for the company to realise that Tonks has turned into a picture of deepest worry as only a metamorphmagus can:

"I've never thought I'd agree with people who say that muggles and magic do not mix. Have you any idea what you are talking about? The spirit of a place communicating with somebody? That sort of thing happens in fairy-tales!"

"Tonks dear, magic only happens in fairy-tales as a far as we are concerned, yet my daughter is a witch who spends ten months a year in an enchanted castle," says Evelyn in her too-friendly voice.

"And anyway, it does happen," says Susan. "Or did. Not recently, but it does, and you have learned it at school just as I did."

"If it's more than five hundred years ago it qualifies as fairy-tale," says Tonks. "Anyway, I did not mean to insult anyone. I just wonder if Hermione knows what could happen to her if people hear and believe this story."

"My parents heard it yesterday and now you," Hermione answers. "Ced and Sue won't talk about this except in my presence and only here and at 12 Grimmauld Place." Cedric and Susan nod. "And if you are worried about yourself accidentally spilling the beans, I can always ask your Head of Family to magically ensure your silence."

Tonks looks at Cedric and Susan: "Did you charm them? Could I talk about it if I wanted?"

Hermione doesn't answer because the thought that she might be able to stop her friends from talking had never occurred to her. Yet, now that Tonks asks she knows that she can.

And Tonks, she realises, knows that: "How did you know?"

Tonks smiles: "My mum grew up a Black. Don't you know that we are supposed to have a letter written by Merlin himself? No, you don't. It's a rumour, don't worry. Merlin did not write letters, it is doubtful that he could. What I mean is that the older a family the more knowledge they tend to have and the Blacks have the longest proven history."

"That is true" says Cedric. "They are the oldest. My own family tree goes back for slightly less than four hundred years and I even I know …stuff," he trails off.

"Will anyone of your family talk to me about what they know," Hermione asks both Cedric and Tonks.

"You can offer to tell them something if they tell you," answers Tonks, "but I wouldn't. First, even letting it be known that you can offer a story, as we call it, might make you a target. Second, sorry to break it to you but you are family now. Just ask Sirius, he'll tell you everything you want to know. Story time was the only time he got along with his parents, my mum says."

"But wait, how can I be family now," Hermione asks surprised. "I mean, I know Harry and I are close, but Ron and I are close too and I am pretty sure that does not make me a Weasley!"

"I know a Weasley or two who would help with that," quips Susan but changes topic immediately: "You really don't know yet?"

"We did not get around to tell her and Harry for some reason did not want to talk about it at Hogwarts. What's wrong with talking at Hogwarts,anyway" asks Ernest. He wisely ignores the comment about helpful Weasleys.

"Try 'portraits who can hear you'," says Cedric. "They gossip among themselves and with their living relatives. And they all answer to Dumbledore."

"Try 'students who practice Legilimency on their unsuspecting peers'," Tonks adds darkly.

"I am here now," Hermione interrupts the barrage of pessimism. "Why don't you tell me how Tonks and I came to be family?"

"Your friend Harry is Sirius's only heir," says Evelyn. "And since important families like to have as many heirs lined up as possible – "

"And since the Blacks are the most important family on earth, just ask my grand-aunts's portrait," interrupts Tonks.

"Warding is highly regulated and the ministry is slow. To keep a long story short, we are now a branch of the Black family." Ernest Granger continued discomfort with that concept is glaringly obvious and Hermione decides not to linger: "But what should I ask Sirius? I mean, what do you know about sentient buildings that turn up in people's dreams and invite them to tea? The only tangible result is the fading."

"And..." Tonks prompts her.

"Fine. It is possible that I can force people to keep my secrets."

"That ability is a staple item in such stories," Tonks informs her. "After all, the spirit chose to teach you, not anyone else. It's a privilege. Besides, I think we just saw you summon wandlessly. It was just a piece paper but most wizards never get that far."

"There are many stories about spirits teaching wizards," says Cedric, " and they either speak in dreams or take their chosen pupil into some other world, which is the same, if you think about it."

Hermione nods in agreement. She has heard such fairy-tales, too, she realises.

"My first question would be what you need to do, " says Tonks. "Because that's the reason spirits teach humans, they want something specific done, and in stories they want it done in a a specific period of time. So that would be something you want to know, do you have to do something and if, then how soon."

"They never ask if one wants to be their pupil, do they?" She remembers that now. Spirits don't ask. Of course, in many of the stories the pupil looks for the spirit because they need help. Did she ask for help? It all started when Harry was almost forced into the tournament, she recalls, and she had certainly been feeling helpless then: "Is feeling helpless the same as asking for help?"

"No," says Tonks. "But accepting their food can definitely be the the same as accepting to stay with them forever."

Hermione rolls her eyes: "True, but having to spend six months of every year in the underworld sounds dramatic and having to spend six months of every year at Hogwarts sounds pathetic."

"Make it ten months and you are a professor, but I think they don't have to drink tea with the castle to get hired."

"Just talk to Sirius, Hermione. Who knows, maybe the spirit wanted to talk to one of the few crazies who like completely lethal sweets, "says Susan. "Maybe it wanted to rant about Merlin and have someone listen to it for a chance. Didn't you see it did not approve of Merlin?"

"It ranted. She ranted. Sorry, to me it looked like my Grand-Aunt Helen would have looked if she had been Madame Maxime. I'd love to hear your Black family stories, don't get me wrong. And I distinctly remember you eating your share of my Thunder and Lightening, so don't you slander my sweets, Susan Bones!"

"She was mumbling about that stuff for weeks," Susan tells the others. "Poor Harry thought she meant Fred and George," she adds mischievously, but when Hermione starts laughing hysterically she joins in. Better to let this joke be on Harry.

**Ξ**

_The evening before at Grimmauld Place:_

"Master Lupin requires your presence in the library, Master Black."

Kreacher has modeled his speech and manners to fit the starched pillowcase and collar he is wearing these days, thinks Sirius as he ascends the stairs. The respectful but authoritative demeanor of the old elf is nothing like the servile attitude Sirius remembers from his youth, but also completely unlike the craziness the elf had exhibited when the ancestral Black House had been reopened last summer. The greatest surprise is his acceptance, linguistic and otherwise, of Remus.

The shifts in Kreacher's personality are endlessly fascinating, one of the many mysteries of everyday life. Ever since returning home last October, Sirius has been paying a lot of attention to small things. Brooding about everyday mysteries keeps him from brooding about the past.

Remus has chosen a slightly different path to deal with the same need and is beginning to pursue a scholarly career, though unfortunately nothing else yet. Like, say, that Brazilian acquaintance. Remus claims that Harry is more important right now, and Sirius privately agrees, but he also has these moments when he sees James out of the corners of his eyes and James doesn't say anything but his face has "guys, get lives" written all over it.

Damn, Sirius _is_ exhausted but Harry asked Remus to have a look at some essays he's written for school, and of course Remus had to do it right now.

Sirius enters the library and walks to Remus's desk. Rolls of parchment are arranged carefully on the surface. Remus had assumed that Harry wanted to talk about difficulties with a subject and had been eager to help.

Remus had been so very worried the summer before, when Harry had decided to take up Arithmancy and Ancient Runes one year late. As Harry's professor the year before, he had found Harry to be intelligent, but uninterested in theory. Now, with Harry's recent homework on his table Remus has modified his opinion: Harry, much like James, is interested in everything it took to make him better at what he did. And, also like James, Harry has an eye for how to apply seemingly abstract theory.

"Is he as good as James was," Sirius asks.

"He is as quick and as practice oriented," Remus answers and smiles fondly at something he remembers.

"Getting on on talent alone," Sirius quotes certain people who hated the Marauder's flair.

"His duelling lessons with the Durmstrang students are very good for him," Remus continues. "His most recent analysis of an eight-century scaldic poem shows a deep understanding of the use of certain combinations for stability and expanded reach."

"And you think that that understanding was won during duelling practice and then used for the analysis of the poem."

"Well, it would make for a highly unusual reading of the poem for somebody who is new to scaldic poetry, as Harry definitely is. On the other hand, if he has come across the principle while practicing shielding, which is highly likely, then he simply saw something in the poem that he recognised and wrote his homework accordingly."

Sirius nods: "And that is altogether more probable than Harry having a hitherto unknown Viking poetic vein."

Remus nods and smiles and then comes to the perplexing part: "Duelling as practiced by the Durmstrang students would be a helpful influence but Harry's essay is still amazingly advanced. He wrote this essay barely six weeks into his duelling sessions with Viktor Krum. Harry would have to be an extraordinarily talented dueller to have picked up so much so fast. Beginners rarely understand the theory behind the spell sequences. You know they don't."

Remus refers to that memorable day – twenty years ago – when Sirius suddenly awoke in History of Magic, smacked himself on the forehead and shouted: "Of course! Why didn't I see it before?" He had had duelling lessons for over a year when that happened, and he had not been too bad, either. (The story then travelled fast and Sirius had to apply his new insight a lot, as friends and foes alike where going out of their way to offer whacking his head for him, since that obviously helped it work.)

"Lily and James _were_ extremely talented fighters. They fought Voldemort himself and escaped. Several times," Sirius now reminds Remus.

"That wasn't duelling, though. Neither had the temperament for that sort of discipline."

Too true, Sirius thinks. Lily and James had indeed been very talented fighters, inventive and ruthless. Between that, the Potter political influence and James's and Lily's unusual power levels, Voldemort's interest in them had come as no surprise.

"So we have a genuine Runes prodigy on our hands?"

Remus nods unhappily: "We have a prodigy on our hands. And he cannot use one of the best magical libraries in Britain because yours truly is bound to keep him away from the library."

"Dumbledore tricked you into that promise, but it involves the property of another wizard. We'll find a way around it soon."

"The fact remains that he suspects Harry of turning to the Dark Arts. Harry, for Merlin's sake!"

"See it from his point of view, he has already seen two powerful dark wizards, he does not wish to see a third. Mind you, he's officially bonkers if he casts Harry as a candidate. Me, yes. Maybe you. Definitely himself, but not Harry. "

"Listen to yourself. When did you become the sensible one?"

Sirius makes puppy dog eyes as if he'd been caught where he should not have been: "Me? I'd never."

Out of the corner of his eye James is grinning affectionately. Which is to say, Sirius is really very tired.

**Ξ**

Most of the time, Harry's room in Number 12 Grimmauld Place does not open into Kensington Gardens, but Harry and 'Tom' need to discuss serious matters and everyone knows how helpful fresh air is on such occasions.

Harry recapitulates: "So, you are convinced that there are more parts of your old self around and that this is making you, the fragment that used to sit quietly in my brain more active. And I believe that if the closeness to said other parts of yourself really draws _you_ out of my mind then something similar would have happened in my first year when I met the major chunk."

"Not myself. The old self," Tom corrects Harry. "And _my_ theory still covers all _other_ known facts whereas you have no theory at all, just a couple of contraindications."

"Contraindications that you are trying to ignore because they do not fit _your_ theory," Harry insists.

"I do not ignore them. I believe that there are many other factors that could have delayed my becoming conscious once again," Tom says patiently. "If nothing else, a mind is not supposed to be more than one person. Maybe your subconscious blocked me."

In this scenery between meditation and dream Tom has a body and speaks and gesticulates naturally. When Harry is awake Tom is a clear but monotone voice inside Harry's head, one that sounds like a book reciting itself. Tom and Harry somehow share Harry's brain, and Tom can look directly into Harry's thoughts, but insists on Harry speaking properly to him. He says that thoughts are confused and may easily be misunderstood. Consequently, Tom has no high opinion of Legilimency, but Tom specialises in taking a different view on practically everything. Harry says that well, he was a dark wizard, after all. Tom says that _he_ certainly wasn't. _He_ is a splinter of Voldemort's mind or soul or whatever, that ended up inside Harry's mind or soul or whatever (they re not clear on that). A splinter_ that has evolved since._

Anyway, the different perspective on everything did not make Voldemort a dark wizard. It made him a _successful_ dark wizard. Says Tom.

Harry says it makes him, Tom, a vastly annoying older brother who won't shut up. A sort of build-in Percy.

"I also keep telling you that the other part or parts of my old self must be defused before they construct a new body," Tom, firmly in his role as Percy Weasley, now reminds Harry.

"Which, as you say, is very simple," Harry repeats.

Tom may not be Voldemort but he shares much of Voldemort's vast repertoire of obscure and powerful magic. Only, of course, he takes a different view on the matter:"That's not what I said. I said that I have memories of my old self doing things that add up to him preparing for the creation of a golem and that whatever he prepared before he lost his original body might still be out there."

Tom's theory about that fateful Halloween is that Voldemort shot a killing course at Lily Potter and Lily shot one at Voldemort. Tom thinks that Voldemort never got to attack Baby Harry. Instead, the two curses collided and, being nearly equally strong, did something unusual.

Wizards do not know why the Unforgivables work. Regular spells require wand movement and very careful pronunciation, to say the least. Not so the Unforgivables. None of the three has specific wand movements, which is to say that they have no basis in Runes, and they do not have specific incantations, just words. Which is to say that Arithmantical principles are not relevant. As far as anyone can tell the curses are pure intent, but how is that intent transformed into magic without employing the basics of all known magic?

Harry objects: Killing Curses must have collided before. Tom differs. He claims that spells that damage the inner organs without making an external mess are far more popular. Voldemort liked to use the killing curse because that curse only kills if the caster is fully aware what he or she is doing and really and truly wants to end a life.

With every killing curse he used, Voldemort would tell the world that they were either on his side or damned.

"I believe that that night they both used the Killing Curse and that Voldemort found to his surprise that Lily's matched his in power. Or intent, if you prefer. Both died, your house was destroyed but you survived with that meaningful looking scar inside the wreckage. And a legend was born."

**Ξ**

The next morning Sirius is still tired. The coffee is amazing, recommended by the clever Brazilian witch whom Remus did not pursue, damn him, but Sirius might be drinking lemonade for all the good it does him: He just saw Lily come into the room, glance at the morning paper and leave again. Sirius opens the paper. It's muggle, and often confuses him, but he can't stand the Prophet. Remus reads that rag and sometimes makes him read specific articles. That's enough. Anyway, here's an article about a civil war. Shouldn't be too complicated.

He is convinced that Lily is standing behind his back and rolling her eyes at him.

Lilly and James stay out of his line of sight and the morning goes well enough, all things considered. Sirius's and Remus's combined analysis of Harry's essays cheers all three of them. He has achieved his goal which was to catch up with his year mates until Christmas. If he continues to work that hard he will soon be ahead. Remus shares his opinion that despite Harry's obvious talent it was the duelling with the Durmstrang students that did the trick and apologises that he did not think of suggesting it himself. Harry having been assured that he has done well is beaming. Only for the tiniest moment does Remus wonder why he asked if his progress was natural. Why should it not be natural? Why would Harry choose that word.

The library slightly derails their good mood. Sirius explains about the promise Dumbledore extracted from Remus: "What you need to know is that Dumbledore hasn't the power to perform lasting bindings that concern my property. It is astounding that he has managed a temporary one."

"But how? How did he do it?"

"He had information that I wanted," says Remus. "Quite desperately. And I was still trusting him at that point. It was my fault, believe me."

Harry groans: "Cut the self-castigation and tell me what it was."

"I wanted to know what happened to James's and Lily's bodies. You see, Sirius does not remember the almost intact cottage we saw at Godric's Hollow. He remembers barely getting you out of a burning building, and that's how Hagrid always told that story, that the killing curse took care of your house. I wanted to know what really happened that night and Dumbledore offered to swear magically and tell me the truth if I did whatever I could without danger to myself or others to keep you out of the library here."

Remus pauses but Harry seems well enough for somebody who is discussing the finer details of the brutal murder of his parents, so he continues: "Dumbledore says he repaired the house and created golems."

Harry's reaction is completely natural, he jumps out of his chair and shouts: "He did what?"

"Not golems, just likenesses," says Sirius, who is not taking the news well at all.

"He used their dead bodies," Remus stubbornly insists.

"Well yes, he did. They were barely recognisable. He could not – Oh damn." Sirius pauses and visibly pulls himself together: "The cottage was full of traps. James and I put several of them up before they went into hiding and they must have added more later. You know how you are supposed to use transfiguration when you fight? Call it pre-transfigured. The cottage had basic intend-triggered wards. Voldemort could not waltz in there. The floor was trigged to rise and greet anyone who would have intended to do harm. And that was the least of it."

"But he was Voldemort. Presumably he had encountered such things before."

"It would have slowed anyone," Remus insists. "Which was the point, to give them a chance to escape despite the anti-apparition wards that Death Eaters always put up before attacks."

Harry has been to Godric's Hollow. He now sees the house as it must have looked that night. Exploding floors and attacking furniture. Last stand of a prankster.

"I was especially proud of the spells on the water pipers," Sirius says quietly, and although all three of them are currently crying, Harry manages a grin. He knows that running water makes for hellishly tricky transfigurations.

"The whole place looked like a nightmare," says Sirius.

_And from afar Harry hears Tom's expressionless voice, and even though he is awake he can see him, standing in front of the burning cottage, and __it __how on earth did Sirius get __in there, or get him out__? __If he had needed proof for the dedication of his father's friends this would have been enough. How useful, that that proof had not been there when Sirius had been dragged off to Azkaban, __thinks Harry and finds that he cannot bear to think about it at all, so he walks over to Tom._

_I can't believe that piece of shit, Tom says._

_What can't you believe Tom, __asks __Harry._

_He enjoyed the traps, says Tom. He looks at Harry: If you can see me he must be really close, he or something that was truly important to him. It must be in the library. Please don't go in there yet. I have no idea what it will do to you._

"So why did Dumbledore perform borderline dark magic on my parents' bodies?"

"He said he wanted them to have a dignified funeral," Remus all but spits the words.

Harry snorts: " You should have insisted on honesty when you made that bargain."

"I should have broken his teeth for him. Daring to suggest that your parents would have looked bad for defending themselves and you."

"Dumbledore wanted proper heroes with ministry approval. Maybe he wasn't entirely wrong in that. Appearances are important, I of all people should know that," Sirius says reluctantly.

"And now he wants me to stay away from the library."

"Indeed."

"And you guys think that it's the same reason, he is concerned with my lily-white image of purest purity."

Remus snorts.

"I can think of another reason. Sirius, what is the most dangerous object in there? In your opinion? Now that we have contained Regulus's locket," asks Harry, causing Remus and Sirius to lose control of their jaws. For a number of reasons, the locket has not been destroyed, but arrangements have been made to contain the truly Dark spells it carries are. Very impressive magical arrangements.

"Dumbledore doesn't know that we know about it," Sirius disagrees.

"It could have been the locket, but it could have been something else, too; he had only given me hints," Remus backs him up. "He didn't trust me, after all."

"He's Dumbledore," says Sirius.

"But how could he have known it was here," asks Harry.

"Well, he is Dumbledore,"

"He must have found the cave. Hell, he must have been inside the cave!"

They hadn't. After Harry had found out about the locket and Regulus's sacrifice they had asked Kreacher to take them to the cave but without a master inside whom he could "follow" Kreacher had only been able to lead them to the general area. They had tried, if nothing else so that Regulus could have a proper burial and maybe even have his name cleared posthumously. They had tried to no avail. There was a strong aura of dark magic, but that close to the sea they could not pinpoint the exact origin. Water reflects and dilutes; Voldemort had picked this hiding spot well.

"It definitely was the locket," Harry announces. "Don't you remember? Kreacher hated all of us but he had singled out Remus. He would make him a cup of tea, and he always said Remus was a spy and thief."

"True, you and I just brought shame on to the house of his poor mistress. Come to think about it, he still wont let me shave or dress myself," complains Sirius.

Nods all around. They must be the best-dressed and coiffured wizards of Britain. Even Harry's hair looks artfully tussled when he's at home.

"Harry, you are brilliant. I thought I was the brain of the Marauders, no offense meant, Padfoot –"

"None taken, Moony."

"But it must have been James. The evidence is overwhelming. We never thought of that blasted locket."

"James always said he was brilliant."

"We didn't believe it. Poor Prongs."

"Lils didn't believe it."

"Poor Prongs."

"The brain could be mum's, you know."

"Lils was clever, but what did she see in James if he wasn't?"

"Things we were not meant to know," Sirius stops the reminiscence before it derails. It is always like that, Harry thinks. They'll get into this mood and start "teasing" his mum and dad as if they were in the room. And then just stop. But Harry loves the moods while they last.

"There is nothing else, is there? Just books that should not fall into the wrong hands and a collection of daggers and knifes dipped in untraceable poisons. Merlin's letter is a hoax, right?"

"Of course it is." Sirius hesitates, but just for a moment: "Tom Riddle's notes are real. They could be dangerous, if anyone knew how to read them."

Into the shocked silence that follows that revelation cracks Kreacher and announces that Amelia Bones wishes to speak to master. And their day gets even better.

**Ξ**

Objectively speaking it does get better. Following their discussion Harry, Remus and Sirius are too distressed to be left in the company of other distressed people. Almost any company is better than their own, and the Grangers are always welcome. The addition of Cedric and Susan ("we will have all sorts of Aurors and Hitwizards in the house until we know for sure who was in league with these jokers. We would spare the kids that.") is a bonus. Tonks, who has the unfortunate habit of saying what she thinks, is to stay as their security detail, lest she gets caught up in the shitstorm Amelia fears ("Don't get me wrong, your cousin is already a fantastic field Auror.").

That Amelia clearly considers the attack a happy case of holiday madness brightens the mood enormously.

"May all our problems drink too much and try to piss off the wrong person," Sirius says, and: "Send them all over and join us if you get a free minute. The more the merrier."

"I don't expect free minutes this year," Amelia says reluctantly and steps back. Soon afterwards, a surprisingly merry company of six pops into the house.

**Ξ**

Sirius, accepting that even Dumbledore was sometimes right had decided to leave the wards of Number 12 Grimmauld Place intact. That meant that any cleaning and renovations had to be done by the members of the family, as only family – and a restricted number of guests at one time – could enter the house. Sirius, Remus and Kreacher have cleaned the house by themselves. (Sirius had spend a cathartic afternoon shredding and burning the furniture, pictures and tapestries of the room where he and Regulus used to meet their tutors.)

The dirt and magical pests of a decade are gone, but so is much of the furniture, the tapestries, the wallpaper and even the varnish of the floors, doors and the imposing banister of the great staircase. Number 12 is so much bare brick and wood.

Tonks squeals with delight: "This is so hot, this is unbelievable! Better than an old factory in East Berlin! Oh Sirius, you are my only family, none of the others understands me as you do!"

Before anyone can comment on the similarities between the two cousins (technically, Tonks's crumbled muggle suit is as formal as Sirius's impeccable robes), Kreacher pops into the room to announce that Dobby and his lunch are here and that Kreacher's lunch is also ready and which one are they supposed to serve first. Meaning that Sirius is required to negotiate in the brewing conflict between the elves of two houses, alike in dignity. And the moment for retaliatory application of the N-name is irrevocably lost.

But the atmosphere at Number 12 Grimmauld Place brightens considerably.

**Ξ**


	18. Grimm Old Christmas II

_**Chapter 12, wherein everything means something & foes and friends come and go  
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"When Dora was born I was still disenchanted with magical culture. Ted and I thought that magic was all right in order to get things done but we weren't having any of that stuffy lore and scary magical fairy-tales around our baby. We even considered giving Hogwarts the slip, can you imagine that?"

Hermione and Andromeda are in the attic of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. They are taking a well-deserved break from the food. The compromise between Dobby and Kreacher was that both elves got to serve half of each course they had prepared and put the rest under stasis charms. That would have worked wonderfully, if only Sirius hadn't been puppy-eye'd out of the kitchen before he could check the amount of food there.

Dora, whose enthusiasm and capacity for food knows no bounds, had seen her mother's eyes turn glassy at the sight of yet another two courses and suggested a tactical retreat: Where better to find dress robes for Hermione than in the huge collection of stuff in the attics. (Hermione's meticulously chosen periwinkle blue ones have been deemed _too subtle: _"Viktor will look like straight out of War and Peace. You will look as if you were wearing a pretty satin nightgown.") Why not go and look right now?

Between shrinking spells, bottomless bags and the wizarding love for memorabilia that collection probably was of immense historical value. But definitely vast enough to yield something appropriate. After offering Sirius's collection Dora proceedeed to volunteer her mother: "Mother is great with practical spells, she can resize anything Hermione chooses."

Hermione and Andromeda had jumped at the chance to flee the avalanche of food. Now, in the relative safety of the attic, Andy is giving a short introduction into magical folklore: "The significance of gifts, you say. Generally speaking, if you are given an animal such as an horse or an owl it is a gift, and you are under no obligation, other maybe than feeling honoured. A magical object or a weapon is given to an ally, so you receive support for your cause and pledge yours for theirs. Let me look at that photograph."

Andromeda eyes both Hermione and the picture critically: "Green would look great on you, or violet" she decides and with a quick wave of her wand opens four trunks, releasing a swarm of robes that flock around Hermione.

"What I am telling you now is very abstract, of course. The actual stories always contain discussions and people get at least one warning before they agree to anything."

"They do? The stories that I remember are quite different. There the hero does not get a warning. Often the story is about finding out that you fell into a trap because you ate something."

Andromeda shudders delicately: "That's muggle stories for you."

"No traps for the unsuspecting? That violet one is lovely, by the way, but-"

"Yes, but. You are half a century too young for it. The way wizards see it, anyone can trap the unsuspecting. We prefer to trap those who think they know more than they do, or the proud and boastful. My, these robes are all quite pompous, aren't they? Don't we have anything suitable?" More trunks open and tilt to display their contents. Robes and coats rise in the dim light like cursed guardians in an ancient temple. The reds and blues come forward, the greens and browns stay behind, guarding the rear. Hermione shoos her imagination back into its box. This house generates fanciful ideas like a really aggressive muse: "What would be the significance of a gift of clothes?"

"Clothes symbolise your standing in society. Who you are, who your family is. They tend to signify adoption or marriage," says Andromeda and grins. "But only if they are gifted under specific circumstances. Complicated, isn't it? With the right words at the wrong moment one could end married to a ghost. Can be extremely nasty."

"Didn't such stories frighten you when you where young?"

"No, I wasn't. I remember laughing about them whereas my younger sisters would be very frightened. Of course I made fun of them. Nowadays I understand them better, I think. Merlin, what is this thing?" The offending gown is thrown back into a trunk.

"And food? What about food?"

"Food isn't common. Potions yes but not food. Too basic, I think. Food would probably mean that you are being essentially changed."

"Is Persephone changed essentially?"

"Of course she is. Before the pomegranate she is that hapless nobody who happens to be pretty and the daughter of Demeter. Then she eats the seeds and becomes the Queen of the Underworld and even her husband fades next to her. But that's mythology, they never were mortals to begin with. The reds and blues won't do, we need a different approach. Aunt Pandora was elegant, compared to the rest, let's look at her robes. The cloth of gold one perhaps? "

"I like gold," Hermione says hopefully.

"But his robes have a lot of gold on them and you can't match too well or it will mean you are dating."

"Why does everything have to mean something," Hermione cries in exasperation.

A mirror screeches and comes to stop in front of Hermione, who finds herself draped in shimmering fabric: "That's the same colour as my original robes. Only in velvet."

"But the fabric makes all the difference, don't you see? And the cut is altogether more classic. The colour was an excellent choice in the first place. Put it on, I'll need to re-size it."

Hermione changes quickly and looks again at herself. 'More classic' translates into a more voluminous skirt, a tight bodice and a very high collar. Nothing at all like her old robes, apart from the colour. She looks like an entirely different, slightly mysterious version of herself.

"I still wish there weren't so much meaning attached to everything."

"Not so fascinating any more? Don't worry, you'll get used to it. So, should you ever meet any powerful spirits and they offer you lunch – "

_Or tea,_ thinks Hermione: "Yes?"

"Eat it. It will be probably good and might change you into a powerful spirit, and who wouldn't want to be one? Not even being a Black would compare to that," says Andromeda, and smiles. Hermione changes back into her own clothes and they rejoin the party in the first floor.

**Ξ**

Kreacher pops into the room and delivers an urgent message from Amelia Bones.

"Investigation difficult, situation in Hogwarts, Malfoy in ministry, don't let the kids leave the house. We'll talk as soon as I can," Sirius reads out.

"The situation is under control but there are too many variables right now," Remus interprets the message for the benefit of the others.

Susan grumbles something and Cedric elbows her: "My cousin is less optimistic," he says before his cousin can repeat her exact words.

"A bet anyone," Dora says brightly. "My pudding's on Susan, and If I win I want to hear what she just said."

"My pudding is on Remus," counters Cedric. "And be careful what you ask for, Miss Tonks. Susan's vocabulary is not for innocent ears."

"We'll know soon enough," says Sirius gravely. "No need to play with your food."

"We'll know before Dora asks for a second pudding," says Remus.

"That would be now," says Harry and points to the door. Kreacher is back with more news: "Master Sirius, Draco Malfoy and Viktor Krum are asking to come through."

**Ξ**

Draco and Viktor appeared like visitors from another world, and in a wizarding house that is saying something. Draco greets all his cousins as politely as if none of them had ever been cast out of his mother's family, hands Sirius a letter and stays within the proper (short) distance from the floo for a guest who hasn't been welcomed yet into the house.

Sirius read the letter and welcomes his cousin and his friend. Hermione later learns that abusing Draco and sending him back into the floo without touching the letter would not have been rude, but taking the letter and then displaying any sign of inconvenience very definitely would have. It made sense, though not much else did.

"Kreacher, after dinner I need you select and clean the necessary furniture for another bedroom. Draco, the house is obviously still a mess. The elves will prepare suitable rooms for both of you tomorrow morning, but we cannot disturb their cooking now. They are still battling for dominance over each other. Viktor, I am pleased to meet you after all. Please, come inside and make yourselves comfortable you two.

"Still think all will be explained before I finish my second pudding," Tonks teases Remus as they head back to the dining room.

"To be honest, I thought that even you would never manage a second helping of pudding. We are not even yet at the cheese course," Remus says grinning.

Tonks falls back to wait for Susan and Hermione: " Did you hear that," she squeals silently. "I want a werewolf cuddly toy for Christmas!"

"I'll make a note for next year, "Hermione says dryly.

"But I want one now," cries Tonks.

"What do you want now Dora," asks Sirius. " Please tell me that you have designs on my unsuspecting friend's body."

Tonks whacks her cousin's head: "There are minors present!"

"Forgive me girls. Dora, please tell me that you'll marry him before the year is over. Next year, I mean before the next year is over."

"Please tell me that you aren't sh-"

Sirius clasps a hand over Tonks's mouth and drags her into the dinning room. Hermione and Susan look at each other.

"I could use a break from the food," says Susan. "Not to mention the conversation. It's as if all of them could turn into Fred and George at will."

"Ah, Lady Susan," says Harry who noticed their intention to skive and and sneaked on them. "But what will you do tomorrow, when the real Fred and George join us?"

"I'll feed them Cedric to keep them quiet. They've been out for his blood since Quidditch last year" Susan replies coldly.

"That's cruel," Harry says somberly.

"No, cruel is what I'll do if you don't keep your godfather from marrying my Aunt."

Harry gasps and grabs both girls for support: "He wouldn't, Hermione, tell her she's wrong, Sirius is way too afraid of Amelia to – Hermione?"

"Hermione, tell him I'm right," says Susan.

Hermione wonders for a moment how to put it best: "I do not think that marriage was ever considered. Amelia is more the type for – " Susan and Harry rethink their alliances and clasp hands over her mouth before Hermione can complete that terrible sentence.

"I say we kill her now," says Susan.

"Nah, I know somebody who would take her out of the country for us," says Harry.

"Viktor won't kill her," Susan points out.

"Depends," Harry says darkly and draws his hand in the nick of back in time. He'd rather not be bitten by Hermione, it will strain their friendship.

"We should concentrate on that werewolf toy for Tonks," suggests Hermione with an almighty eye roll.

Harry doesn't object. Remus is a small price to pay for peace and silence about his godfather's love life.

"Master Harry, Master Sirius demands that you join and help with the food," Kreacher commands respectfully. "Kreacher will put Master" pause, sniff "Draco and Master Draco his friend in the room opposite of Master Harry his room. Kreacher can clean rooms further away tomorrow if Master Harry so wishes."

"You know best which rooms are suited Kreacher," says Harry. "Maybe they wont stay for long. Let's wait and see what Amelia tells us."

Amelia joins them soon afterwards. She obviously expects Draco's and Viktor's presence, in more than one sense. Kreacher – Dobby hasn't left the kitchen since Draco entered the house – pounces on the chance to feed one more person and Amelia for one seems grateful. Her day has been too long, she says, to have yielded so little.

"Two of them were under the Imperious, the perpetrator of the course being the third. He however shows signs of possession, and all three of them have been unresponsive since we administered truth serum. The Healer who did that without checking them for blocks is also under investigation, but she is very new, so it could have been a honest mistake. All that would leave us without clues, but the preliminary report of the Unspeakables says that we are looking for somebody who can withhold their magical signature. And that narrows it down to less than fourteen people currently alive. World wide. Another ten died in the last fifty years."

"Less than fourteen?"

"Eleven or fourteen. Wizards of that level are not as restricted as the rest of us are, and the Unspeakables cannot agree how many bodies somebody can have simultaneously and still be regarded as one person."

Two or three definitely distinct persons would faint, but for Amelia's content air:

"I'm assuming you aren't sorry to see those particular three go," asks Tonks.

"Madam Bones has gets six new Aurors and two new Auror Captains out of this," says Draco. "Under different circumstances that number of promotions might take up to three years."

Madam Bones nods and takes another bite and lets Draco continue: "The Ministry recognises the importance of the case. My father was among the first who offered their support."

"Lucius Malfoy's influence is such that while he cannot do entirely as he pleases, there are no permanent alliances against him since that would take too many people agreeing on thing for too much time," Sirius says appreciatively. (Sirius detests Lucius on principle but acknowledges him as a master of his craft.)

"Meaning he is clever enough to land on the same side as Mr 'the ministry is obliged to love me and I am fabulously rich, too' Black here. There is no doubt, by the way, that Lucius would want to, but the divide between them is significant. Most people think it cannot be done. To my mind the only question is if Lucius would be able to stomach the means."

"He has nothing to do with Uncle Sev's disappearance," Draco says quietly.

Amelia nods, if not exactly in agreement: "We are not investigating him."

Draco looks at the table: "My Godfather has been missing for two days."

"Indeed. Lucius alerted me in the morning. Before I realised that I needed papers from home." Meaning, before she was ambushed in her own home. "I will see him and your mother later, by the way. If you want to send them a note I'll be happy to take it."

"Thank you Madam Bones but we only just left."

"Do send a note Draco," says Andromeda, causing her husband and daughter to freeze for a moment. "You have been here for an hour. That's enough for Narcissa to be tied up in knots."

Draco smiles affectionately and accepts the parchment and quill. Shortly afterwards Amelia leaves.

"I don't want to know, do I," Ernest Granger asks in the general direction of the opposite wall.

"I want to know about the eleven to fourteen wizards," says Evelyn. "How do you know there aren't more if they can hide their magical signatures?"

"They cannot hide that power," explains Remus. "It's pretty much like hiding an active volcano. You cannot tell which volcano it is but you know that it is there. Dumbledore is one of course. Voldemort was another. Grindelwand. Thankfully he constructed his prison himself or we would not have been able to keep him inside one."

"Anyone who isn't dark," Ernest asks with exasperation.

"For sure? Perenelle Flamel. May or may not have died two years ago."

"Nicolas Flamel's wife? Really?"

"They created the Stone together, but afterwards Perenelle turned to other branches of magic while Nicolas continued his alchemical work. As everybody who has ever eaten a chocolate frog knows," says Remus. "Perenelle gets less attention than Nicolas because she chose to devote herself to very obscure magic. Old magic, pre-wand magic that is commonly regarded to be a complete waste of time because a human life isn't long enough to learn anything useful."

Harry, seeing that Hermione is too astounded to speak, asks a couple of questions in her stead: "How much time did she devote to that magic to become that powerful, and how do you know that she was not Dark?"

Hermione smiles gratefully at Harry and looks expectantly at Remus, who thinks he might just die from overexposure to cuteness.

"Mrs Flamel served twice as Headmistress of Beauxbatons, for most of the fifteenth century and from 1865 to 1883. The aura manifested between those two periods, but for more details I suggest asking your Madame Maxime."

Hermione gasps and Harry clasps her back: "I think Hermione needs air. I'll take her to the roof garden for a couple of minutes. Sue, Cedric, help? Don't laugh Sue. Come on, Mione. Don't talk yet, just come."

The teens – some of them indeed giggling – do not hear Tonks's announcement that never mind the soft toy, she wants a photograph of _that._

**Ξ**

The roof garden is surprisingly intact, but icy. The cold helps with Hermione's star-struck state and Susan's giggling.

"You all right Sue," Cedric asks solicitously. "Aunt Amelia can handle Malfoy, don't worry."

Susan, suddenly somber, sighs deeply: "I am more concerned about her recent break up. Whatever. So, Lucius Malfoy has approached his wife's estranged cousin for help and even send his son and his son's friend, who had been staying with them to stay with you. This would be one of his usual cunning political manoeuvres, but there is genuine cause to be concerned. Namely Snape. Draco and Viktor's presence means that we have to keep this meeting short since all of us avoiding them would be very rude. Ced, you are of age, what about a privacy spell?"

"We are all safe here," says Harry, "but please pretend that that's not the case tomorrow. Everything that is said in front of the Arthur and Molly Weasley goes directly to Dumbles. Are Sirius and Remus allowed to know what we say now? Great, I'll share with them, now bring me up to date."

Hermione takes a deep breath: "I have been communicating with the," she hesitates " the spirit of Hogwarts." There, every time she says that it is a little easier than before. Hm. Better not speak about it too often, then. "Since the beginning of this year, and I only figured out at Halloween that these weren't just dreams. Apparently I have been taught things while I thought I was chatting and drinking tea with Them. I call it Them. Wandless magic. Specifically, a bit of magic that hides me so thoroughly that people even forget that I was in the room a moment ago."

"It makes time go slower," says Cedric. "She can use it on others by touching them, we took out Aunt Amelia's attackers. Feels odd but is dead useful."

"Time passes normally for me," Hermione says with a frown but Susan assures her that she experienced it as Cedric did: and suggests a short experiment with Harry but Hermione shakes her head: "My parents know I do it when we are not on different sides of wards, and it frightens them. I can't. Unless one of you wants to fetch them. Tell mum I'm unwell and you are worried. It's not entirely a lie: If I see any more food today I will be sick for sure."

Cedric chuckles and apparates to the first floor.

"Is it me or are you not impressed at all Harry," Hermione asks her best friend.

"Oh no, I am extremely impressed. I knew that something was up but you had gone all secretive, and we had barely any time."

"I wanted to tell you but I feel more and more that Hogwarts is not a safe place to discuss secrets."

Harry agrees with that sentiment: "Let's meet at Hogsmeade, all of us. Sunday after the ball?" The two girls nod. Cedric and Evelyn crack onto the roof.

"Mum, Harry, the three of us are now going to fade, that's what I call it. Try to make Sue and Ced notice you but do not let go of my hand."

Two entertaining minutes later Hermione fades back and they manage to convince Sue and Cedric that they didn't come now onto the roof but had been there with them all along.

Harry is very impressed but neither he nor Evelyn experienced time delation as Susan and Cedric describe it. Nothing at all. Sue and Cedric insist very emphatically that they did experience it.

"You wont solve that problem now," says Evelyn. "Let's go back. Hermione, say you are dizzy and you'll go to bed early, but please imply that is is due to girly problems and not due to the food, or the poor elves will blame themselves."

And that's what Hermione does.

Of course, she hasn't made it to bed before Dobby crack's in with a cup of tea and a hot-water bottle, apologises profusely that the Black household does not stock the necessary potions for her and promises faithfully to remedy that oversight both at home and here as "Harry Potter's Hermy will often come here to be with Harry Potter."

The next visitor is Tonks who has come to visit her sick new cousin, hold her hand and pat her hair, inspect all her clothes, approve of the new dress robes, announce that she'll go later and fetch proper festive robes for tomorrow for both girls, remark that Hermione's hair is worse than Harry's –

"Tonks, stop. I am dizzy. Don't you want to go bond with your wayward cousin?"

"Nah, it's mum and dad's turn to bond with Sirius. Besides, that cute Bulgarian date of yours has three thousand female relatives all of whom must be suffering from agonising cramps every month; he looked absolutely stricken that you should be alone here and without your potions. Your mum made a show of looking for aspirin, lest he thinks we hate you. Here. And Harry is just as sweet. How do you pick all the nice ones? Is it the frizzy hair?"

Tonks lets herself fall on her bed. Kreacher pops into the room with a glass of water for "Miss Hermione her muggle medicine," and eclairs for "Miss Dora". And more pillows.

Dora is delighted: "Don't you love being not-sick? It's better than an un-birthday party. Eclair?"

"Thanks, no. All I need is my fluffy pink dressing gown and an explanation for what you do to food. This has nothing to do with eating."

"Fluffy pink," Tonks says with mock disbelief.

"Very fluffy and extremely pink," Hermione says unapologetically. "When it was when it was new; these days it's sort of pale. No, don't go into the attic!"

"You are right, we should go together," says Tonks and apparates both of them out.

"Fine, now I am sick," Hermione grumbles. "Where are we?"

"Library," says Tonks and draws her wand. "Halfway between our room and the attic. No idea what happened. Kreacher."

"Yes Miss Dora?"

"Get Sirius."

"Don't," says a voice.

"Harry? How did you get in here?"

"I am not Harry," says somebody. "Or not just Harry."

Then the room is bathed in light: "Dora, what's the matter," asks Sirius.

"I wanted to apparate into the attic and landed here instead, and we heard a voice like Harry's who said they are not Harry."

"There is no one here," says Sirius. "The library has specific wards, they'd let me know."

"What wards," asks Hermione pensively.

"Extra security and anti-theft. The books are rare and relatives can be greedy."

That should take care of her parents' worries, Hermione decides and fades, causing Sirius and Tonks to forget her: "Tonks, what are you doing here," a bemused Sirius asks his cousin.

"Sorry Sirius, I was going to look for a book for Hermione but the wards won't let me remove anything."

"That's all? Choose something and I'll remove it for you."

"But I've forgotten what I wanted," Tonks complains. "What can I take now?"

"Ask Harry and tell me," says Sirius, and both of them leave.

_Finally_, Hermione thinks.

The room goes dark again. Only, it doesn't.

"Hello Hermione," says not-just-Harry. "Thank you for staying. I've been hoping to talk to you."

"Where are you, who are you, why does Sirius not know that you are here," Hermione asks tersely, dizziness forgotten.

"I am a remnant of one wizard and a part of another. Please do not freak. I cannot harm you. Sirius does not know I am here because the wizard who I was part of could hide his signature."

"Tell me again why I should believe one bloody word, Tom Riddle," Hermione answers through clenched teeth.

"Not Tom Riddle. Not any longer," says the voice and something happens in the air in front of her, but not much, just a slight disturbance. "There's not even enough of me to form a specter," says the voice.

"You can talk. Do that," says Hermione.

The truth is that this voice is nothing like the Riddle from her botched time-travel a year ago. And, if she's not very much mistaken, the inherent wrong-ness of Diary-Riddle isn't there either. She has never heard that, of course, but Harry has spend a lot of time describing it and the sense of danger that accompanied hearing it. Hermione hears or feels nothing of the sort. Yet she can hear many things, even magic. Does that mean that the voice is as harmless as it says?

"Speak," says Hermione, and hears the most amazing story of a splinter consisting of knowledge and very little personality that ended inside a living human mind. How it grew and became self-aware and finally managed to contact its host. Tom (as it calls itself) speaks about being able to help Harry with Runes but not being able to access any dark magic, and shares its theory about the events of Halloween 1981.

"Great story, Tom. Harry is such a Runes and Duelling prodigy because you live inside his head," Hermione sneers.

"No!" Air disturbance. "It is the other way around. I am because of Harry. I have only the parts that correspond, and I use them to give Harry an extra edge. He would be a little slower without me, but not much. I cannot turn Harry into anything he isn't."

"Prove it."

"You know there is nothing bad in Harry."

That she knows, but she will not admit it right now: "I need a proof of goodwill. You say you live off his magic, for heaven's sake."

"He is healthy, isn't he? If I was using him to get magic he would not be. Ask Sirius where magic comes from, he knows and can explain."

Hermione is astounded at the many things Sirius, and only Sirius, is supposed to know, but that is something to discuss with him, not with this voice: "Tell me something I do not have to believe because you say so. Tell me why you are speaking to me now."

"I am speaking to you because you can hear me."

"Tonks heard you."

"Tonks is a magical creature like you. She has her own magic, just like elves or you. You two stabilise me."

Does she? Really? "If I could do that I would have ripped out your throat just now."

"I am not saying anything bad."

"You are saying something impossible," Hermione all but shouts angrily.

"I apologise for angering you," says Tom earnestly. "I need to think about it. If the old self knew anything about this I will find it and I will tell you. Harry will tell you, I will not approach you again."

"You will tell me something I can verify. Now."

"I will tell you two things. First, ask Draco Malfoy why he left Hogwarts. Harry had an intuition that it will explain what happened to your parents in fall and I agree. Second, this fading. The key is what you tell people will happen before you fade them. I am sure of it. Try the following: fade with your parents and ask them to do magic. Ask the one to move and object and the other to make fire. They should be able to do it."

"I want to see you! Now!" Hermione screams. The air in front of her moves and sparks come out of no-where, and for a moment she can see ...Harry, if he were Tom's brother, or the other way around. Tom/Harry sees her, and as he smiles delightedly there is not an ounce of evil in his face. Hermione does not want to trust her eyes but this is what sees. For a moment. Before Tom/Harry dissolves again.

"You did it, see? Try the experiment with your parents, I am convinced that it will work!"

Hermione finally finds her voice again: "What do you think it is that I do when I fade?"

"I had better not tell you now. It would influence your perception. I see that you do not like hearing it, but ask Sirius what wizards say that magic is, and decide for yourself. Please. And try what I said."

"Will Harry know that you talked to me?"

"You talked to me. I could not have talked to anyone else like I did just now. Not even Tonks, as you saw. And Harry will know everything, I promise."

"Very well." She would thank him for his advice but doesn't. He just said that what she says when she fades makes things happen. Better not say too much.

"I will think think about this."

**Ξ**

She cannot very well walk through the house in her night gown and be seen, so she stays faded until she reaches her bed. Once she is back inside she unfades. The not-light fades and she sees that the only source of light are candles. How atmospheric. Hermione pulls up her covers and is soon fast asleep.

She finds herself in the company of one soft snore (Susan) and one soundless sleeper (Tonks). There is something she cannot identify at the place where she left her clothes yesterday, with a note pinned to it. An examination of the note in the bathroom reveals the garment to be a Japanese-Viktorian dressing gown that she can wear for breakfast, if she wants. With swinging sleeves _and_ a bustle it is easily the most opulent article of clothing Hermione has ever worn; it is so excessively pretty that she takes the time to wrestle her hair into an approximation of a bun. Time to begin another strange day, she is sure.

**Ξ**

"A very good morning to you Miss Hermione," says the only other person at the breakfast table. Is he keeping a team of barbers in the house? How can anyone be that perfectly coiffed and attired at this ungodly hour?

"Just the walking library of magical lore that I wanted to see," Hermione greets Sirius, who laughs.

She can see where Harry gets the charming laugh from. So to say. Thankfully, Harry and his smile are Sue's to enjoy and to defend with a Bludger. Though Hermione will lend a wand if their combined cuteness leads to riots. She smiles to herself: "It is entirely possible," she says.

"What is possible? By the way, I hope you slept well despite Dora's snores."

"Tonks doesn't snore and she is a sweetheart. I love the clothes she plundered from your attic for me and I really hope she can teach Ron to how eat as she does."

"Don't think about the clothes, they are useless up there in the attic. They do not even fall apart, just keep getting more and more. Take whatever you like."

"I will say that everything I've seen there is a valuable antique. But thank you, I will. It is like robbing a museum or a film set. Don't tell my parents I want to rob museums, by the way."

Kreacher pops in and says that Dobby is cleaning furniture and what how does Miss Hermione take her hot chocolate.

Hermione thinks hard, as the only hot chocolate she is partial to contains port, and as far as her parents are concerned robbing museums would be preferable to warm port at six in the morning. Only, it is too early to think hard. She has no idea what to say, and Kreacher is looking so eager, in his own way that she cannot just send him away. Wait, she knows somebody other than "Hogwarts" who is partial to hot chocolate, but who? Ah, Fleur. And how –

"Strong, bitter, spicy, served with cinnamon and cream," recites Kreacher. "Kreacher will now prepare Miss Hermione her hot chocolate."

"I'd like the same, please, Kreacher," says Sirius before the elf pops away. "Strong, bitter, spicy. What spices," he asks and, seeing that Harry's friend is confused explains: "You were concentrating on the taste and Kreacher picked it up. That's normal for an elf who has strong bonds with his family. Dobby needs a little more time with you but he will start doing similar things."

What, mind reading? Taste bud reading? "What makes such a bond stronger?"

"Judging from Kreacher it all depends on how much the elf likes you. Kreacher was nothing like this when I was young."

She knows the reputation of the old Blacks; there's no point ruining the morning by talking about them, so she returns to the matter at hand, literally: "This isn't my normal hot chocolate, by the way, it's Fleur Delacour's. I've tried it and like it and it was the only one I could think of that does not contain port. Too early for port," she says, and Sirius laughs again.

"Sorry Hermione, I was thinking of my Uncle Alphard. He trained promising students in pure-blood customs and drank port at all times of the day. I was very fond of him."

"I know the name," Hermione exclaims before she remembers she heard it while using her newly discovered fading to spy: "I heard Draco Malfoy mention something about his advice being still the best there is. The context was interesting but what was it again? I am not sure."

"Tell me what you remember."

Her memory is not forthcoming: "Viktor was advising Draco how to draw attention to that scar, I think," she ends lamely.

"Ah. Well, I noticed my young cousin looking consequently at the table while talking to me. If he's used to play to the scar to receive positive attention he might not be able to stop doing it by will. I'll remember to talk to him about that. I am not the only person alive who will recognise this as one of Alphard's cornier tricks. I think Andy appreciated it, though. Obvious tricks can be used as a sign of respect, a way of saying that one is moderating one's behaviour to fit the company."

Hermione feels naive for assuming that people who would want to express something would do it by talking: "All this is fascinating. That discussion yesterday in particular was amazing."

"That was a good one, if I may say so myself. Harry has shared your news, by the way, and Cedric found the time to add a few details. I expect you know just how impressive that is."

"I am terribly impressed myself," says Hermione honestly.

"And rightly so. The last time that is known to have happened was four hundred years ago. During another Triwizard Turnament. Hogwarts seems to be more active when she has guests."

"Was that other case Perenelle Flamel?"

"Yes. Shortly afterwards she retired as headmistress of Beauxbatons, and the next time she was seen publicly she was a mage. That's what witches and wizards with that sort of aura are called among old-fashioned folk."

Kreacher serves the hot chocolate and for a while they both concentrate on that.

Then: "Did the Flamels really die two years ago?"

"I believe they hid in another part of the world. Remus is not entirely right. Mages can hide their existence if they want to, but whether the Flamels are alive right now matters little for you. What matters is they are still widely known for having possessed valuable secrets."

"I wasn't going to blab about this," Hermione protests.

"I did not think yo would. Again, congratulations. When I was a student ...we knew what was there when we made Marauder's Map, you know. We looked for it, but we never found it, far less managed contact."

"It wanted me to find the way. I received instructions, it was only a question of daring to follow them," Hermione tells her cup.

"It is sentient. It chose you. You'll find out why. Don't worry."

"I am still a little worried that I might have agreed to do something and now don't know what that is, and how much time I have."

"You are dealing with stones. Sentient or not, stones tend to have time."

"Some make time," Hermione muses. "The Philosopher's Stone makes time, if you want to put it that way. Apparently I can slow down time, under specific circumstances." She does not mention the time-travel.

Another pause. Fleur's hot chocolate is really good. Hermione has to tell her when she sees her again. Was the first task really only three days ago?

"Something odd happened yesterday after you had gone to bed," says Sirius without looking at her, reminding her of Draco and his scar, though surely that does not compare, thinks Hermione. Sirius continues: "Dora apparated into the library to look for a book for you without asking anyone what you might like. I told her to ask Harry but instead she suddenly decided to look for clothes in the attic. And Dora likes to pretend otherwise but she is very focused."

"Dora was going to the attic," says Hermione. "She wanted something for me and grabbed my arm to apparate me along, but I felt bad about taking more of your things and did not wan to come along and we sort of crash-landed in the library. Dora did not realise that it had been my fault. I didn't either. I know it now. Anyway, Dora thought there was something wrong and had Kreacher call you. I wanted to be alone for a while and when you said that the library had additional wards, I realised that my parents would not be frightened so I simply faded. And Dora immediately forgot about the clothes and that she had not meant to go to the library at all. It's all part of the fading."

"I wondered. That explains it. Yes, very impressive."

"I am impressed as well. You managed to hold on to the memory, since you clearly knew that something was not right. I am not entirely happy about that, to tell you the truth."

"We do not live in this house because it's convenient, Hermione. The library wards recorded an irregularity around the time Dora and I were in there, and alerted me. I would have put it down to the wards being overly sensitive, which these wards definitely are, but then Harry told me about your most recent achievement and I wondered if that had something to do with what the wards had recorded. As I said, they are ridiculously sensitive."

_Or __the wards recorded '__Tom__'s'__presence __after all_, thinks Hermione.

"Will you tell me what else happened in the library? I can't guarantee Harry's safety if I do not know what happens inside my house."

And she, Hermione, is completely wet behind the ears. She had known that his looking away (just like Draco had earlier) was some sort of trick. And _had kept looking at him._

"I will contemplate my failure to realise what I know. Then I will do an experiment and then I will indeed tell you. Unless Harry decides to tell you first. I do not mind if he does."

Some time later Sirius bursts again into laughter. _What a merry family these Blacks are,_ Hermione thinks sourly.

"Remus and Dora are right, you and Harry are unbearably cute. How can Susan bear it, I wonder? I would be mad with jealousy. Oh, hello Harry! Kreacher got you too, I see. Harry, your friend here is the first witch to drink tea with Hogwarts in four hundred years. Aren't you impressed?"

Harry is less than alert: "I am, I am, wait, what was it, impressed, yes. I don't know what you're drinking but I'll have the same, only twice as much please, Kreacher. And four times that for Remus, I just saw him and he's unbelievably cranky today."

"Four times Master Sirius his or four times yours, Master Harry?"

Harry, clearly overwhelmed, clutches the cup that has appeared in front of him. Only to be petrified by his caring godfather.

"Sorry Harry. Don't drink it without cream." Sirius takes the cup away from his godson and ends the petrification.

Harry looks questioningly at Hermione: "Is my dogfather pranking me, Hermione?"

Hermione regards Harry: Sleepy, dressed to the nines, giving her an adorable hurt look; obviously about to curse Sirius into next week. She feels guilty about preventing that, but somebody needs to think of all the wonderful chocolate that will be spilled if these two start duelling in here: "We ordered hot chocolate as Fleur drinks it and it turns out to contain a lot of cayenne pepper. It is possible that Sirius meant well."

"Really? What a shame," says Harry and sits up straight, all pretenses of sleepiness gone.

_Yes_, Hermione thinks, t_here would have been blood, and spilled hot chocolate._ She's so glad she was able to save the innocent hot chocolate: "I'd like another cup please."

**Ξ**

Hermione's gratitude to Tonks's interest in her wardrobe increases: Remus is as well dressed and coiffed as the other two, and it's only thanks to Tonks's enthusiasm that Hermione does not look like a total slob in contrast. (But really, how do they do that?)

Seeing all three of them together she spontaneously decides to take "Tom's" advice, though not quite as "Tom" gave it: "I have a question for you, now that you are all here. I'd like you to describe magic to me. One description each, and make it as short as possible." She wanted to see Harry's reaction, and Harry is clearly surprised, from the first word on. Did he knew that she was supposed to ask only Sirius? It looks that way. Good! "Tom" did indeed tell him everything. He might be partly trustworthy.

"My one word would be 'power'," says Remus.

"Difference," Harry offers.

_A__n apt description,_ Hermione thinks: "I no longer like my own description. It used to be 'energy', as if magic was something that physicists hadn't yet noticed, but would, one day. Now my description ends at 'Magic is.'"

_I'm at a dead end_, thinks Hermione, _as I really do not see how that could help; __of course, the thing said to ask and to experiment, and I've only asked, for now. We'll see._

"Everyone," Harry says slowly. "I need to tell you about Tom. Hermione has already met him."

"Of course Harry," Remus says, nervously, as the sudden tension coming from the two teens is palpable. "A new friend of yours?"

"Sort of. He helped me solving our library problem."

"What," Remus and Sirius ask in unison.

Harry sighs and explains the series of acknowledgements and licenses that he, Remus and Sirius must say in order to free Remus from his obligation to keep Harry away from the library. Hermione listens with rapt attention to the first example of magical binding and unbinding she has ever witnessed.

"I am absolutely new to this but it makes sense," she offers.

"I am absolutely not new to this," says Sirius,"and this is brilliant. Mooney, you know it does. Let's do it."

"I first want to hear about this Tom," says Remus. "Who is he and how can he advise Harry when Harry is inside this house?"

"Now that you mention it, I am curious about that as well. Will you enlighten us Harry?."

"We met in Kensington Gardens last night," answers Harry and quickly recounts the dream that informed him of Tom's and Hermione's meeting in the library, what they said that night and what else he knows. The news are calmly received, if not well. Not at all.

"I want to see this fading," says Remus through gritted teeth. "Hermione can demonstrate it. And I definitely want to meet this Tom. Now."

"Library," says Hermione. "I am not frightening my parents out of their sleep. Perform your unbinding and let's go."

**Ξ**

The unbinding works as promised. Slightly less angry now, Remus demands that Harry and Hermione fade and try to reproduce the time dilation experienced by Susan and Cedric. That, too, turns out to be exactly as Tom said. The key is what Hermione says before she fades somebody: "I really should have realised it myself when Cedric told me that they would not be able to talk about my secret, but as I said, I am new to this branch of magic. Magical agreements, that is. I fully intend to pick your mind, Sirius."

"My mind is like my attic," says Sirius. "Now that I know that no-one can get into your mind I will gladly answer all your questions."

Sirius and Remus are decent Legilimens and declare that trying to read Hermione is like running into a wall. Like Remus's mind, though Remus, by way of being a were, can also attack would-be invaders. Both are impressed with the Occlumency shields Harry has build in a few short months. Tom had insisted.

"I still don't trust him. If nothing else, your shields do not protect you from him."

"Can we move on? It's almost eight and breakfast is at nine," snaps Harry. "Hermione, I have the note, fade Sirius first."

Pause.

"I knew it," Harry shouts, "I knew it would be easy! Remus, your so-called magical agreement is hereby officially null and void. Shall we go back and tell the- What the hell!"

The air freezes, the cold hitting Harry like freezing water, a bucket full of it emptied on his head, or a wave, there is no end to it, he is so cold, his lungs hurt, he cannot breath at all- Ceiling. Shelves, books. He is lying on a floor. What happened? Harry takes a deep breath but the air is exactly as air should be. Somebody squeezes his right hand, somebody- Was that the same somebody?

"Harry, are you all right? Oh Harry, I am so sorry!"

"Hermione? Sirius?"

"Can you sit up?"

"I think so. What happened? Oh, you faded! Did something go wrong?"

"I grabbed your hand while I was out, so yes, something did, sort of. I am sorry, Harry."

"Well, don't let go of my hand now now. Don't worry, I am all right now. Sirius, help me up. Hermione, don't crush my hand. What happened?"

"You need to see for yourself," says Sirius. "Can you stand up?"

"Of course I can, you mutt. What do I have to see?"

Harry stands up. Both Hermione and Sirius are white as sheets. Both of them are looking at him as if he were about to die, here and now.

"Tell me. Whatever it is." Harry says quietly but Hermione shakes her head. No, she is pointing, and why does she look as if she were about to cry?

"Behind you, Harry," Sirius says hoarsely.

Harry turns. There's Tom, looking younger than he does in Harry's dreams, and with him – a woman with dark red hair and green eyes. A man with Harry's messy hair.

When Harry last saw them in the Mirror of Erised he hadn't realised how terribly young they had been.

**Ξ**

Hermione is standing as far away from the little group as she can while still holding Harry's hand. No matter how Harry's parents came to be here, Harry and Sirius and Remus – he clearly could not have been left out of this – clearly think they are real, and that means that she will let them have a private moment.

"You were right, you know. About me being a danger to Harry's health," says Tom, who is standing next to her. Hermione, eyes still riveted on her friend, his guardians, and his currently not dead parents, does not respond at once.

"I am getting too strong. If magical creatures like Tonks and you influence me already I am beginning to acquire magic of my own. Sooner or later I will start to acquire a body."

"How does one acquire a body?"

"Worst case scenario by using any matter that is around and arranging it correctly."

"How would you do that?"

"I wouldn't. It would just happen."

Silence.

Does she have to think _now_? Hermione sighs: "Best case scenario?"

"I start displacing Harry."

"Don't you dare," she threatens absent-mindedly.

"Again, I am not doing anything. It seems that whatever magic lodged me inside Harry's mind is trying to reconstruct me. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but my accessing your magic right now clearly shows that I am a parasite."

"You are? Why don't I notice the drain if it is that noticeable?"

"You are alive and healthy, you won't notice the drain until it gets much stronger. I on the other hand am so weak that it feels as if I were plugged into a power source."

"How do you even know that metaphor? Don't answer that. You even look like a mix between the real Tom and Harry."

Hermione sighs again and looks away from the most touching thing she has ever witnessed. Apparently, there is always some detail that has to be taken care of: "You are very nice for a parasite. Lily and James are here because of you, aren't they? What are they, exactly?"

"Harry's memories from the first year of his life. Which is why they interact with Harry and Sirius and Remus but not with you. I am sorry about that, Harry would love for you to meet his parents."

Hermione rolls her eyes: "As if I'd impose on his time with them. Idiot."

"Suit yourself. When you sever my connection with Harry they too will go."

Her first impulse is to protest at the unfairness of this. Her second impulse is to think before she talks: "They are unconscious memories, right? Harry won't know what he is missing?"

"He won't, and his guardians have many more memories they can share with him."

The impulse to protest against unfairness is _still_ there. Understanding it takes a while: "You are quite sure you must go? Harry likes you."

"Harry is idiotically selfless. I must be out of his mind before he meets the rest of the old self."

"Accepted. But I wonder about your motivation. It makes no sense for a life form to not be protecting itself."

"That_ thing _isn't me. And I am not a life form."

"You are a perfectly acceptable parasite," Hermione chides Tom.

"I am a magical parasite. Magic is not the same as life. Now stop being sentimental."

"Now you sound like the Tom I met."

"Whatever. Remember to make sure-"

"That they wont be able to talk about this, yes Tom, I know. They aren't stupid, either."

"Better safe than sorry."

"Yes, yes. Now, are you looking forward to dying?"

"You are prone to being sentimental yourself, aren't you?"

Hermione glares at him. But she is sort of sorry that Harry will loose his not-exactly-imaginary friend. Goes to show how sentimental she can be. _He is righ_t, she sternly tells herself, t_hat connection is way too solid. Who knows how much it took out of Harry. Who knows what Voldemort proper could have done with a connection like that."  
><em>

And once Harry and his family – alive and not – have said their goodbyes she conjures a really big pair of scissors and cuts the shimmering thread that connects Tom's and Harry's heads.

She really should have known that everything would disappear in a blinding flash.

**Ξ**


	19. The Art of Asking Good Questions

_**Chapter 13, wherein the art of asking questions is discussed**_

_Hermione is bouncing off non-existent walls. Sometimes she looks around, sometimes she doesn't. Some of what she sees she likes. Mostly she _bemoans her lack of foresight. It's her fault they are here at all. They shouldn't. It can't be good for Harry.  
><em>_

_"Harry. Please listen carefully, I have a really important question: would you mind greatly if I tortured your relatives?"_

_Reluctantly Harry wrenches his attention away from a memory of five year old Hermione levitating a book that her parents had deemed inappropriate from the highest shelf in their library. He has been looking at Hermione's memories for what feels like forever but (considering that the two of them are in what can only be described as white featureless not-space) could just as well have been no time at all. _

"_Yes, I would," Harry says firmly. "They are perfectly capable of ruining their lives themselves. I want to talk about _your_ memories. Did you really levitate a knitting needle into a socket after your dad told you not to play with electricity?"_

_"He told me to stay away from sockets and I decided that keeping a distance of several feet and levitating objects into them was the same as 'staying away'. Of course, I was three at the time. Harry, I think we should concentrate on the matter at hand."_

"_We are." Harry's uncharacteristically ironic expression throws her more off balance than the words._

"_We are?"_

"_Yes. We have somehow managed to access each other's memories. Now we will neglect my upbringing, which was sad but uninteresting, and concentrate on the interesting things you have been finding out. And the interesting things Tom told me over the years, of course. Isn't it funny that we had both the same Ancient Runes tutor?"_

_"It's a scream. Maybe teaching runes was his true fate. Come to think of it, that would have been a funny Hogwarts. Snape teaching Potions and Riddle teaching Runes. We could have had a Greatest Git Cup."_

"_Or an Annual Glaring Contest," Harry agrees seriously. "The two of them against McGonagall. So. The matter at hand. What was it again? 'Dark Lords are sad people who missed their true vocations?'"_

_Hermione rolls her eyes and Harry grins._

"_The matters at hand are that you had a splinter of Voldemort somehow embedded in you, that that splinter may or may not be gone now and that you sort of talked to your parents. Let's start with the best of the three. Your parents. If you want to talk about it, that is."_

_ A smile illuminates the whole white not-room and melts Hermione's heart: "That was wonderful. Totally worth every time Tom told me that "I want to rethink that." Poor Remus and Sirius went nearly mad. I wish you could have met them as well but we needed you to keep that time spell running."_

Wait, what?

"_Tom, as you called him said that I could not have talked to them because they had never met me in life. That what you met were your own unconscious memories of them."_

"_Did he? For memories they were surprisingly aware of the time that had passed. They said things to Sirius and Remus that sounded as if they had been watching us all the time."_

_Hermione frowns,now insecure. She wants to know what really happened, but what if the price is to lessen Harry's joy (that smile!) about having met his parents? "Condensed memories from the first fifteen months of life" is dry, even scientific. Sort of heartless, really. "They are watching over me" on the other hand is as much consolation for the murder of one's parents as anyone can ever hope to get. If one believes in it. Does Harry? What should she say?  
><em>

_Whatever Harry believes he seems to have no need for consolation: "They did not refer specifically to current events," he muses. "They said general things. Or, actually, things they may have been thinking about their friends during the last weeks of their lives. Wait: They were not suspicious of Remus. Sirius and Remus have told me that due to a number of misunderstandings they had suspected Remus of being Voldemort's spy."_

"_Maybe your parents didn't. Or maybe they changed their minds about Remus but did not get the chance to tell Sirius about it," Hermione says gently. _

"_I hope so. I hate thinking that they died suspecting one of their closest friends." _

_(That smile too. So sad.)  
><em>

_They fall silent again. Then Harry clears his throat: "Look, I got the chance to talk to my dead parents. Nothing can lessen that. If you agree with Tom's view just say it."_

_Hermione decides to stall for time: "How reliable was Tom, in your opinion?"_

Harry considers. "_Difficult to say. Concerning straightforward things, like my homework? Absolutely. But, how to put it? Say the sum total of Voldemort's knowledge fills a library like Sirius's library. In that case Tom was a collection of not-nasty and not-too-nasty pages ripped out of several books."_

_Hermione shudders. Even as a completely legitimate and useful metaphor, the idea of ripping pages out of books... hurts: "Just a fragment, you mean. An immensely knowledgeable fragment but obviously missing the logic behind what he knew. "_

"_Exactly. He could neither learn new things nor think. He was a collection of information that recited itself and could check if it applied to something I was doing. Like, say, a Runes book that could do your Runes homework for you."_

"_And yet he had personality and it changed over time. That makes no sense." At least she thinks that is doesn't, but Harry agrees readily: _"_No, it doesn't. And yet, it does. He was a bit like the Sorting Hat and its new songs every year."_

_ "Are we sure that the founders are dead?"_

"_Not in the sense that we know the location of their graves and have proof that it is indeed them in there," Harry says slowly. He does not want to get off topic. There must be something more he can say for his position, but what? "Look here: When you cut that connection I felt it. It felt as if somebody had been yanking my hair, but I had grown used to it because they had been doing it all my life, and that somebody had suddenly let go of me. Does that count as evidence?"_

"_It should," Hermione says. "There are people who automatically distrust the evidence of their senses, but I am not one of them. Unfortunately, there's also the more moderate school of thought that the evidence of the senses can be unreliable. I suppose we have to wait and see how you feel from now on. If your perception changes, or if some things become easier or harder to do. Oh, I hate not having somebody I can ask about this!"_

"_Hermione, from what I see in your memories you are too paranoid to ask," Harry says sensibly._

"_That paranoia is what I hate," she explains._

"_I have another proof that it is as I say," Harry offers. "We do not doubt that I had a connection with a parasitic partial mind, right?"_

"_We do agree on that," Hermione says, curious as to where this is leading._

"_Well, you have obviously transferred that connection to yourself. Because here we are, and I can see all your memories and you can see all of mine."_

"_Harry, I noticed that, and I really hope that it is a very restricted connection indeed. You do not want a permanent telepathic connection with me. I know I do not want one with you. No offense meant, you are one of my closest friends but i don't want and you can't want, either."_

"_No need to explain," Harry hastens to assure her. "But even if we have one we can close it. Occlumency, remember? My point is that you have obviously taken Tom's place. You have replaced him. He is gone."_

Oh! "Y_ou might be right. I _hope_ you are right. Yes, you are obviously right! Why did I not think of that?"_

_Harry snickers again: "Deep breaths, Hermione."_

"_Anyway. You sort of met your parents. We do not know enough to say how that happened and Tom, who had an opinion on the matter was neither omniscient, nor do we have any evidence that he was an expert on the matter. We do have evidence that Voldemort, who, well, created Tom, did not believe in life after death. Evidence such as his silly name and his disgusting Horcruxes. So we know where Tom is coming from, if I may say so. But that leaves us without resolution in the matter of your parents."_

"_I can do without," Harry says firmly. "And if I may quote a brilliant friend of mine: why didn't I think of that? Tom was biased. He was a fragment of Voldemort. Even though he somehow shed Voldemort's Dark nature."_

"_I am really curious what changes will occur from now on. In you, I mean. Tom called himself a parasite. Maybe your magic will get stronger. Not that we understand where magical strength comes from," she curbs her own budding enthusiasm. "Damn it. Problems with more than one unknown factor are evil."_

"_So they are. Now, I am not paranoid, like others I could name. I will definitely tell Sirius and Remus everything about Tom."_

_Hermione bites her lower lip: "They might know experts on Soul Magic. If that is what it is. I have come across that term in one or two books, but never across any actual books on Soul Magic. Or they might be able to ferret out somebody. But not Dumbledore. I do not trust him with this. Can we agree on that?"_

"_We do. I am not trusting people who memory charm my friends and plant suggestions in the minds of their parents."_

_She sort of agrees, but Harry is not referring to Dumbledore alone here: _"_So we are not considering asking any MoM experts. Say from the Department of Mysteries."_

"_People who obliviate and brainwash kids are not trustworthy either Hermione," Harry says sweetly._

_Hermione sighs deeply and says without conviction that _he Statute of Secrecy is important._  
><em>

"_Is it?"_

_They look at each other._

"_I think it is," Hermione says tentatively. _

_Between them flutters a memory, a huge prehistoric moth, brought back to life. Etched on its wings is five and half year old Hermione, being Legilimenced into _"being a good girl",_ one who does exactly as she is told,_ "exactly as your parents or teachers, or general figures of authority mean it, Miss. No interpreting their words in your favour. Ask them what they mean and follow it to the letter. And if you are good you will one day be allowed to do magic."

_Somehow the current connection between her mind and Harry's has fully restored both their memories. All of them. There is nothing forgotten, nothing missing, not even the tiniest detail. If they want they can have a minute-to-minute account of their lives so far. _

_Time isn't passing here. They know that instinctively, and they have already spend a lot of this not-time comparing their childhoods. The memories from baby-perspective (all those funny sounding adults!) are particularly funny. Harry's life with his relatives isn't (but little Harry is adorably sarcastic). The many times Hermione and her parents were made to forget accidental magic, culminating in the Legilimency episode, aren't funny either. There are no such episodes in Harry's childhood, even though he lived with muggles. Dumbledore's blood wards saw to that; because wizards have very firm opinions on Obliviation, when applied to them. Not when applied to muggles: the Ministry will rather perform Mind Magic on a family than include them in the magical world before their magical children are eleven years old. Much easier this way. Much easier to present them with some facts and less choices when the kids are eleven. _

_Harry is more than not amused. He is furious: _"_Say secrecy and separation are necessary. I see several ways of enforcing both without regulating other magical races as if they where dumb animals, and without mind raping people who have a right to know about magic." _

_"I am not defending the Mind Magic, " Hermione starts but Harry isn't done yet: "And I know for a fact that you are critical of the way fully human wizards treat part-humans. Especially now that you've met Madame Maxime and Fleur."_

_As Hermione knows exactly how Harry feels about the official treatment of wizards 'with a furry problem.' He's been disenchanted with the Ministry of Magic ever since Hagrid was sent to Azkaban during their second year. But this, she knows, and would know even if they weren't currently in some sort of shared memory-space, is more serious than his previous discontentment. It's not that she does not understand him, of course. But: "Harry, they are detestable. But if you start sympathising with Voldemort, I will assume that Tom tricked you after all and that my friend is no longer inhabiting your skull." _

_(Damn mindspace. She should not have said that out loud! Actually, Tom is the least of her worries. Harry's mood swings on the other hand. His fixation on her childhood. Calling his own unimportant.)  
><em>

_Harry smiles again: "Your paranoia is getting better. Anyway, I am furious at the Magical Government, not sympathising with Voldemort. There's a difference between the two positions, subtle as it may seem." Hermione snorts. "OK, she says. You tell Sirius and Remus everything about Tom. And everything about this mind-space here. I trust them, and they are brilliant wizards. But no-one else for now."_

"_Agreed. Your Tom however," he fixes Hermione with a stern glare, "your Tom, or should I say young Tom Riddle. We do not talk about him unless we are alone and under the most paranoid wards we can manage."_

"_I know the question sounds stupid, but do you think that was really Riddle?"_

"_I am positive."_

"_But how? No, don't answer that. Magic is odd and we know very little of it. Anyway, I agree. Absolutely. To tell you the truth, meeting Riddle is something I'd love to forget. Even more than the time-travel."  
><em>

"_Really? Because I want you to look into Riddle's seventh year notes with me. They are in Sirius's library and we can't read them. We need to tell Sirius because he is the only one who can remove that book from the shelf but he does not need to know why if you don't want him to. He expects me to be curious."_

_She's not keen, not at all: "If you insist."_

"_Aren't you curious?"_

"_Curious yes, eager to touch anything Voldemort has written? Not so much," Hermione says reluctantly, surprising Harry, who had expected her to jump at the idea of such a book: "Hermione, you don't even know that it is dark; besides, you have read dark books before. 'Most Potente Potions', for example."_

"_Yes, but I did not know in such detail what the authors had done. Don't worry, I will try. I am just being childish."_

_Harry, even though he did not expect it from her, does understands why anyone would feel bad about trying to second-guess somebody like Riddle. But he also wants her to try her luck, so he stops there. Once again they look at each other. Harry takes another look at the fluttering memories: _"_Incidentally, I am hereby adopting toddler-you and you are not allowed to grow older. Never."  
><em>

"_What?" He has lost his marbles. And it's all her fault.  
><em>

"_Don't get me wrong, your law-abiding self is my friend, too. But little Hermione interpreting her parents' rules to mean that she _can_ play with the kitchen appliances? Precious."_

_Hermione blushes and huffs: "I was being completely responsible. I was misunderstood, that's all."_

_Harry looks at her fondly: "I take it back. I'm adopting all of you."_

**Φ**

Some time and silliness later they "make" it back into the library where no time has passed and Remus and Sirius have not recovered from talking to their dead friends. They have a chaotic and fruitless discussion on the nature of that meeting, soul splinters and afterlife. Everybody shouts at everyone else and no-one gets to finish a sentence for a good ten minutes. Then Sirius somehow remembers to ask Kreacher for calming potions. (Or did Kreacher bring them of his own accord and hex them directly into their blood streams? They never remember afterwards, and Kreacher, when finally asked, will look at them with eyes full of patience and reproach.)

"Recapitulation: You two have spend Merlin knows how much time swapping memories and adopting each other. Harry's parasite is gone. Hermione has a nice potential time-delaying and/or telepathy charm on her hands, that can potentially be used to reverse Mind Magic, but we have to work out the incantation and wand movement. James and Lily were made up from Harry's memories, meaning I am probably just crazy, but not haunted. None of us trusts Dumbledore or the Ministry enough to ask them for help, or even let them know what happened. What am forgetting?"

"All sorts of things, Sirius. But we have more urgent problems. Some of us need to rest," Remus says with a meaningful glance and Sirius nods. "Hermione. You have been performing unknown magic for an unknown period of time. If you were in a regular spell research and creation program you would be getting a thorough check up right now."

"Since you are keyed into my wards as a family member they are monitoring your health, which is why I know that you are exhausted but not dangerously so," says Sirius seriously. "Also, the healer check ups Remus mentioned are not just for the sake of the researchers. The healers would analyse the current level and state of your magic and health as a means of acquiring additional data about the magic performed. Yes, spell researchers are their own lab rats. Yes, I know about lab rats. You can probably guess why they interest me. However. I insist on basic restorative potions and bed rest. And if your parents want you to see a healer we will call one."

"Hermione, don't be difficult," says Harry (of all people).

"Difficult! I haven't said anything," Hermione protests.

"You were going to. I know you."

"Harry, I am surprised! You are the one who gets into all sorts of danger and has a bed of his own in the infirmary, not me! That sort of thing never happens to me!"

Harry grins and proceeds to do a scarily realistic impression of Madam Pomfrey after a Quidditch match. Talking to his parents and out-Hermioning Hermione. Life doesn't get any better than that.

**Φ**

It gets worse though, when Mr and Mrs Weasley join them for lunch. For some stupid reason Harry expected Ron, Ginny and the twins. But they never left Hogwarts for the holidays, most students didn't, this year. Arthur and Molly come with Percy, instead. While Harry retains some of his former affection for the elder Weasleys, he has not forgotten their doubts over Sirius's guardianship of Harry. Also, Arthur's barrage of undoubtedly well-meant questions is making Hermione's parents uncomfortable. Maybe they do not want to explain the non-magical world over dinner? Also, while some of Arthur's questions are general questions that anyone could answer, many are highly specific and need extended knowledge of several sciences.

Cedric's parents are there as well, and Arthur and Amos seem inclined to get into a little my-son-is-better-than-yours. Amos definitely believes that his Cedric is better than all six Weasley boys. They want to include Sirius, as Harry's godfather, but Sirius resolutely talks about the ongoing renovation of their house and nothing else.

The company soon falls apart. Small groups appear who keep to each other and ignore everyone else. Arthur and Amos, obviously. Remus and Cedric talk to Draco and Viktor. Ted Tonks, Elsbeth Diggory and Molly Weasley. Sirius, Andy and the Grangers. Susan and Harry and Tonks and Percy. Most uncomfortable, but Harry realises that anything else, in this company, would be worse.

Later, Viktor will assure Harry that such splintering is par for the course for official events. Harry will ask Viktor when and how informal holiday lunches turn into formal events and Draco will interject and tell him that family events is the worst sort of company since you cannot carefully plan a balanced group. By then the Weasleys have departed, and the Diggories and Susan are off to meet her aunt for a couple of hours. After all, the students are supposed to return to Hogwarts today. Or tomorrow morning. At the very latest. The Grangers check several times on Hermione, who is asleep, and on Dobby, who is monitoring her health. Another thing family elves can do. (The term 'house-elf' is grating on Harry's nerves.) Dobby claims that Hermione is fine and will wake up in time to return to Hogwarts. The Grangers insist he stays with her until then; not that Dobby has tried to leave Hermione's bed side.

"Family events, huh?" The Tonkses are family, and by way of his close friendship with Ron and Hermione the Grangers and Weasleys are as well. Actually, isn't Molly Sirius's fourth cousin?

"Yes, Potter. My mother is really good with these."

Dragon in the room, Harry thinks crossly. Mad dragon with a tooth ache. He counts to ten before he responds: "Do you have many relatives on your father's side?"

"Assorted distant cousins. Malfoys have small families."

"My mother is not an expert," Viktor says, eyes dancing. He likes to rag 'better mannered than thou' Draco. "She has two older brothers, and my father has two older sisters. My cousins are married. Family events mean many kids and great-parents and great-great-parents. No-one gets invited, we just turn up."

"Sounds nice," says Harry.

"Loud," says Viktor, but he is still smiling.

"Right, you have a real family and we have political allies," Draco says suddenly. "Even scar-head here has one. Go ahead, rub it in."

Viktor sighs. He should not have forgotten that Draco is worried: "Your godfather will be all right, Draco." From what Viktor has heard Snape is likelier to cause problems than to have them. Only, Draco sees Snape as his beloved and misunderstood (and somehow that translates to 'mostly harmless') godfather: "Will he? The Aurors don't even know how long he's been gone or if he disappeared from his home or from Hogwarts," Draco shouts. And forces his features back into their customary frozen state. Which contrast badly with the angry flush on his face.

**Φ**

"_There you are. It is good of your family to worry but I would never let you hurt yourself, you know."_

_Hermione's in her current bedroom, but the bed is tiny, like a doll's. Her tiny sleeping self in it. She is wearing her pretty kimono-dressing gown, and floating. Cross-legged, fragile Japanese tea cup in hand. No hot chocolate. The room is bathed in bright green-blue light like the sea at a particularly beautiful tropical beach. The source of the light, the huge other Hermione is blue-green as well. Also floating. Her wild hair filling the room. Not threatening, despite her big, very green teeth. The tea is _her _choice. There are no sweets in evidence. As if to underline that she is nothing like 'Hogwarts'._

"_That's good to know. That was you in the lake, wasn't it? I had completely forgotten it and Harry did not point you out in my memories. Why didn't he? I can't believe that you would not interest him."_

"_He can't notice everything at once, so he prioritised. Which is why I am here. You still have questions."_

"_I always have questions."_

_Hermione Green Teeth smiles: "And I have answers. We are well met."_

_Answers, Hermione thinks. What sort of answers? There are all sorts of them. Illuminating answers. Confusing answers. There is one obvious test, though: "Who are you, exactly?"_

"_Boring. I am obviously you."_

"_Which part?"_

"_Hm. I am the you that was suppressed by the memory charms in your childhood. I am the splintering caused by the very experimental magic that restored your memories of second year. Some of me is your mind understanding itself. Some of me is your ability to access wizard magic. Finally, I am also everything you have ever heard and not deemed important enough to remember."_

_Not the helpful sort of answer, then: _"_Tell me about time-travel."_

"_There are two important parts: getting away from the hold of linear time, which is like saying 'getting away from the hold of gravity'. Some might argue that that is the hard part, but they are wrong. Navigating in time is just as difficult, which is why regular time-turners are created to give you six hours but are only reliable for three. But say you have managed the first step by way of a ministry issued time-turner, are currently located in a highly charged environment, like, say Hogwarts, and happen to be completely fixated on a meeting that you missed."_

"_Like (to take a completely random example) my best friend meeting the wizard who has orphaned him and is trying to kill him? I see how it would interest me, but I do not remember thinking about it. Nothing, it's not there."_

"_Remember what I just told you about me? I do. You were. We were. You suppressed it. You were extremely busy with all your new subjects, and had also decided that the wish to have been there when Harry met diary-Riddle was useless since it was obviously in the past You were being _sensible_," she spits.  
><em>

_There was no need to think about it: Hermione _hated_ the idea that something like that could happen to her. That she would be doing something so dangerous to herself. But what could she do about it? Never again be overworked and stressed? Regular self-analysis in order to always know what was really important in her life? The latter completely contradicted the former, she noticed: "That must not happen again."_

"_But it happens all the time. Human life is the consequences of decisions that you are barely aware of."_

"_I don't believe it! You are psychoanalysing me!"_

_Hermione Green Teeth throws her head back and laughs, and laughs and laughs. Till the tears run down her cheeks. Hermione can't believe it, but she can't do anything about it either. But wait. And wait. And – _

"_Kid, I am here because you need me. Urgently. You need me so much that you are bypassing the normal structure of your thoughts and several of your beliefs as to what is possible and what not in order to get an only mildly scary version of your deepest fears to talk to you. Now get that tiny brain of yours to work. Why am I here? What can be so bad?"_

"_I thought you were the one with the answers," Hermione says confused._

"_And you are not asking me any questions."_

"_But I do not know the questions! Why are you here? Why do I need you to be here?"_

"_That's two of them. Where do you want me to start?"_

_Is it possible to strangle one's own paranoia? Probably not: "Start with the second," Hermione says through gritted teeth. _

"_You are badly out of your depth. The school year started with Lucius Malfoy restoring lost memories to you and your parents. You continued with a month of special attention from Snape, nearly challenge Dumbledore over the Goblet of Fire, got even more special attention by something that should not, in your world view, exist at all, were frightened to death when you awoke in the lake – yes, that's why I was there, and why you instantly forgot me. You have unknown magic on your hands and nobody to ask. I think I've covered the major points."_

"_Please tell me that the basic problem is the implosion of my narrow, authority-trusting world-view. That's it, isn't it? Te world is getting away from what I believe about it," Hermione says quickly, never ever wondering where that particular pronouncement came from._

Green Teeth sighs deeply: "_The problem is that you don't believe me. The problem is that you wanted to spend a couple of days home 'to think about everything' and honestly expected that that would help. The funny part is that you can recognise the problem as long as it is in other people. You are worried about Harry's consequent ignoring of his life before Sirius and Remus. Harry by the way is doing better than you. So you can stop worry about that, at least."_

_Time passes._

"_What then is the solution," Hermione finally asks. She can learn. Really! She may be a world class suppressor – or hypocrite – but she is capable of recognising truth, if truth rampages like an offended Hippogriff. _

"_You are just afraid. And ashamed that you have these problems at all. You feel that makes you incompetent. The human brain is wonderful but it contains some truly redundant parts. But never mind that, now. Ask me if there is a quick and elegant solution. A trick in fact."_

"_Now you are making fun of me! How can there be a trick?"_

"_There's always one. Remember the knitting needle in the socket?"_

"_I thought that kind of thinking nearly got me killed."_

"_That's how the moron who planted that suggestion in your mind excused it. For your information, the usual route in cases of muggleborn children with overly frequent magical accidents are temporary magical blocks and monitoring. Not the next best thing after an Imperius. Somebody was lazy and did not care."_

_Hermione ponders this. There is a secondary but painful problem with all that: "My parents must have noticed the change in me."_

"_Don't be too mad at them. They thought you had finally gotten a healthy fright. They had been very frightened."_

"_I want to be mad. I need to be mad at somebody. I cannot accept that somebody blundered and hurt me and not be mad. Unless you remember the name of the witch or wizard and recommend some therapeutic torture," she says sensibly and hopes that she isn't once again suppressing something. _

"_Too true. OK, trick. Look at this."_

_'This' is a piece of amber with two moths caught in it. Magical amber. The moths are still moving. Slowly, but moving. _

"_It's pretty. What is it?"_

"_Anger directed at your parents. You know it is there but we'll keep it on stasis. So to say. To be dealt with at a more convenient time."_

_Hermione's eyebrows disappear somewhere in her hairline: "You've got to be kidding me."_

"_Nope."_

"_And the other problem? The big one? Are we going to turn that into amber as well?"_

"_And use it to decorate a room in a Russian palace, why not? Oh no, it's been done already. Got to be original, Don't you agree? I think the other solution is better. The first you suggested."_

"_I did not suggest anything! What did I say?"_

"_How did you call it? Implosion of your narrow, authority-trusting world view?"_

"_But I am already paranoid! Can't I just keep you as a pet and consultant?"_

"_Did I tell you that the trick is to trick you into asking? No? Well, now you now. Don't worry, if you forget it. I'll remind you."_

**Φ**

Hermione awakes from her second slumber feeling refreshed, happy and doomed.

"Dobby's Miss Hermy is awake! Dobby has hot chocolate for Miss Hermy! And eyeballs for Miss Hermy's familiar!"

"Eyeballs?" _Dobby's?_

"_Obviously,"_ says a gravelly voice in her mind. _"__Monitoring you while you were out with magical exhaustion has sped up the bonding. __Elf Dobby, I approve of you."_

Dobby beams even more and Hermione deduces with a sinking feeling that her new familiar (Crookshanks will be furious!) can talk to everyone. Time to face his – the gravelly voice is vaguely male – chosen shape.

"The Ravenclaws will kill me or abduct you or both," she says, straining to keep any hopeful tones out of her voice. (And Crookshanks will be offended. Or will he? Birds sit on shoulders or perches. Cats on laps. It could work. Damn.)

_"Which is why I am a crow."_

"A distinction without a difference."

**Φ**

Harry is amused to see Hermione rejoining them one moment after the more difficult guests – and, unfortunately, Susan and Cedric as well – have left. He is surprised to see that she's brought company: "Hello everyone. I have been adopted by a hooded crow. He talks if he feels like it and needs a name."

Silence descends. Harry catches Hermione's eyes and rolls his own. Hermione raises an eyebrow but mouths something. Presumably:_Tell you later. _Does she really think that she will get out of explaining everything right now?

Evelyn Granger for one seems delighted: "Oh Hermione, he's gorgeous! Where did he come from? Can I touch him? How do you know it's a boy?"

"He says he is one, yes, I have no idea where he was an hour ago. He announced himself in a dream and was there when I woke up. Dobby says he let him in."

More silence.

The crow allows himself to be lifted from her shoulder and petted by the elder Grangers, who don't notice the changes atmosphere. Hermione had no idea her parents liked crows. What's the matter with the others? They look so terribly-

"Sirius," says Andy, "you are the head of this house."

"Now that you mention it, I think I am," Sirius drawls. Then he straightens his robes, walks over and congratulates Hermione on bonding with a familiar. Remus gives Harry a push to go next. Then it's his turn. Followed by everyone else in the room in order of age and relation to Sirius.

"This is something special I take it," Ernest Granger says bemusedly while keeping a fatherly eye on the Bulgarian exchange student who is last to congratulate but easily the one most interested in his daughter. (Hermione is oblivious. Ernest supposes the boy is all right.)

"It's a very special moment," Andy confirms. "Not every witch or wizard is accepted by a true familiar. His form being meaningful to you and your wife makes it even more important. According to some traditions this is the beginning a magical line."

Ernest Granger would have thought that magical lines start like all others. With children, or maybe at a wedding, but he refrains from saying it. He pets the bird some more. His daughter's familiar is a particularly elegant bird, if he may say so. So shiny grey and black. Not a raven, but close enough for sentimental memories: "I did not think you'd remember the stories we read you," Evelyn Granger is telling Hermione with a misty eyed look. "it seemed so fitting later because the book was so important to the little witch. And then of course it became even more fitting."

"I do remember," Hermione says without prompting from her crow. "The little witch had a raven called – "

Ernest Granger is delighted: "Crow is close enough. Let's call him Abraxas!"

Two cries are heard: "Yes!"

"No!"

Draco glares daggers with untraceable poisons at Sirius and hastens to explain that Abraxas Malfoy was his paternal grandfather.

"Not Abraxas then," Hermione says firmly.

"Krabat was more romantic anyway," says Hermione's mother. She and her husband exchange a soft smile.

"_Remind me of the story," _Hermione silently pleads with her familiar.

"_Read it. It's very pretty __for a maudlin story. __I like the name. __Even if_ he wa_s an ugly raven. __"_

"Krabat it is."

**Φ**

"Aunt Andromeda is partly correct," Draco says later. The Grangers have left as they are working the day after. Sirius asked the students if they want to return to Hogwarts for dinner tonight or for breakfast tomorrow and they have chosen breakfast. Harry does not know Draco's reasons but he and Hermione have unfinished business here. Remus and Sirius want to talk to them about the events of the morning, for one thing. And if Hermione isn't too tired – but she slept well into the afternoon, she should be all right – they can have a go at cracking Riddle's notes. Who Harry wants to read very badly indeed.

"Obviously," Draco continues, "the stories are about wizards who become independent from their pater familias and start their own line. But I suppose they can be applied to a really new line as well. Though I understand that you aren't actually new. Any idea who you are related too?"

Which is a very tactful way to put a very problematic question.

Sirius has advised them against the test. The client loyalty of Gringotts in this case means that if a new line were to be really an old line with outstanding debts, Gringotts will inform the descendants of the other side. The problems that will follow from that won't be created by the goblins. The worst the goblins will do is to inform a muggleborn that their great-great-grandfather has left them a goblin wrought goblet and then frighten the poor sod into handing it out. The wizards on the other hand...

"No," Hermione says what Sirius advised her to say. "It must be somebody unofficial." Legitimacy or lack of thereof being important. "Where can I find these stories? Is there a particular collection, like Beedle the Bard?"

"_Thank goodness Andy told you about Beedle," _says Krabat (silently) and Hermione agrees. They settle into a surprisingly interesting discussion about wizard folklore and stories. When Viktor decides to contribute names and short recaps of his favourite stories Hermione apologises for her manners and starts taking notes.

Harry grins to himself. He knows Hermione is genuinely interested; but Draco is _so_ pleased to have the muggleborn who bested him for two years at Hogwarts write down everything he says. And something about his best friend's demeanor – he can't put a finger on it – tells him that she knows and is terribly amused.

Hermione's bird – Krabat – hops on Harry's shoulder. Harry reminds himself to find out about appropriate treats and purchase them. About the importance of familiars he knows what he has heard today. Of course, he has his lovely Hedwig. Strange, that no-one ever told him that. But he will borrow Hermione's notes – and books – and anyway, this is Hermione's bird. Treats are just polite.

"_You are very thoughtful, Mr Potter."_

_I am. What?_

"_Thoughtful and surprised. Hermione did say that I can speak, didn't she?"_

"_I did not expect to hear you inside my head," _Harry answers honestly.

"_That's not a given with everyone but it is very easy to talk silently to you. I should be able to do the same with your other friends."_

"_My familiar can't talk to me, though I know that she understands me. And when she has an opinion on something she let's me know. Just not with words."_

"_That could be because your familiar is a bird who is still acquiring the ability to speak to you. It will come. I can talk because I am partly Hermione. As time passes I will be reintegrated into her own mind and Krabat will become more himself, though I expect that he will always be able to speak with humans."_

Harry takes some time to digest this, but can't. Why on earth must she do things that sound exactly like Horcruxes? How did that happen?

"_Ah, no. I am nothing like a Horcrux. Quite the contrary. This magic was wrought in order to prevent Hermione's mind from disintegrating. You know what caused this. You most helpfully tried to make her understand it this morning."_

"_How? How did you happen? How are you not a Horcrux? How is that possible?"_

"_Instinctive magic, Mr Potter. Self-preservation. Aided and abetted by this very gracious bird. He really is Hermione's familiar, and as such he can do this for her. Out of the goodness of his heart, so to say. Bit maudlin, I know. Anyway. This is not a Horcrux. A Horcrux is a vile distortion of a rare and beautiful bond. My goodness me, I _am_ maudlin. Who knew?"_

Harry knows that Hermione can be _very_ sentimental. It does not matter right now. At all: "_What happens if the bird gets hurt, if you really are part Hermione? Or later when it will be just him. It will hurt Hermione, won't it?"_

"_Don't worry about Krabat or about me. We are well protected. Instinctive magic, and more than that. Believe it or not, most wizards who could hurt us will respect us too much to try. This bond is that fundamental."_

"_Is that why it signals the beginning of a new line?"_

"_Oh, excellent choice of word Mr Potter! Yes. A familiar bond is created by magic itself. Well obviously, but to wizards it is as if magic becomes for a moment a person, and this hight and mighty person goes into the trouble of acknowledging a puny human."_

_"Interesting. I wonder why no-one ever told me. Stupid questions, but is Hedwig my familiar?"_

"_From what I know she thinks she is your mother. I am not omniscient, but to me that's a yes."_

"_Last question."_

"_Why? I like questions, and Hermione is busy. Look, Viktor has managed to learn the titles of the books her parents mentioned. Be nice and get them for him, will you? He needs all the help he can get."  
><em>

"_Should I? You are right, I should. I will, I promise."_

"_And your question?"_

"_Why are you calling me Mr Potter?"_

"_Oh. That's not me, that's Krabat. He is very proper. Hmmm. No he isn't. He might have- he might have an _interesting_ sense of humour. Yes. Oh dear. Hermione will not like that."_

_Harry looks speculatively at the other three. Draco gestures into Viktor's direction (who is taking his sweet time to write the German name of the author of the novel 'Krabat') and raises a pale eyebrow. Viktor is nothing if not persevering. Hermione is nothing if not oblivious._

"_She won't like it you say? Do tell."_

**Φ**


	20. Family matters I

_**Chapter 14, wherein surprising things happen to important families  
><strong>_

Then Draco compliments Harry on the winter garden. Sure, that room is renovated, decorated and perfectly habitable. In a house that, for the most part, "has great potential".

But Draco declares in clipped, diplomatic-corps tones (so unlike his old drawl) that "the winter garden is very you, Potter. Do something about the rest of the house as well. I am not sure Cousin Sirius is equal to the task. Make him let you handle that."

Is the act of Draco uttering these words more or less improbable than having talked to the dead, Harry wonders for a moment; but because he is not Hermione, who takes surreal events as a personal affront, he ruminates this while replying politely: "He was discussing the renovation during lunch. I take it you overheard that."

"I am sorry to say that I did," Draco says delicately.

Harry guesses that this is payback for Sirius's earlier quip about the late Abraxas Malfoy and does not rush to defend his godfather: "I am glad you approve of the room. Of course, between three glass walls and the many plants, there was not that much left to do."

"Then knock out some walls and replace them with glass, Potter. Light won't hurt this place. Granger agrees, don't you, Granger?"

"Hermione thinks that the view will be a problem," Harry answers in her stead. "This isn't the best part of London, you know."

Hermione wonders if/why Harry would wish to keep her out of this conversation (which is what he is doing) but remembers that Harry has been seeing a lot of this new Draco while training with Viktor and may know best.

"The neighbourhood is currently muggle, of course, but staying in the ancestral family home is only proper, if it's still available, and there's simply no living in London if you mind muggles. Besides, Sirius can easily do something about the immediate neighbours."

Grimmauld Place being a particularly fine example of period architecture around and on top of different period architecture, each clashing with the others and all of it neglected, Hermione fails to see what Sirius (or anyone short of a demigod armed with a navigable river) could do.

"Always assuming he is interested in a long-term agreement with the current minister," Harry says to her surprise. Then she realises that Draco didn't say 'neighbourhood'. He said 'neighbours'.

After a moment, she deduces the logical explanation, and finds that she does not like it: Does the MoM really relocate muggles if a sufficiently important wizard wizard wants it to? Sure, regular municipalities do it occasionally. Say, because a new street is needed. But -

_Sirius could buy flats and place them at the disposal of ministry employees, _she hears Krabat's gravely voice._ A sufficiently big number of wizards can apply for area-wide muggle repelling charms. That would actually require the cooperation of the regular city administration, but if the applicants are all ministry employees the MoM will go at lengths to achieve what they want. It has happened before. It's how Knockturn came to acquire side streets. __Diagon was planned, constructed __and 'hidden'__ by dim ministry officials when the Knockturn are__a started to burst at the seams. Knockturn is ancient, it __started__ a__s a__ magical village just off Londinium. It's a very great pity wizards let it degenerate like that.  
><em>

Hermione is flabbergasted. She says so and asks how her familiar-who-is-still-mostly-herself knows these things.

_I am __t__ransmitting Harry's thoughts to you. He is telling me what Sirius told him, but he claims that there are old maps in the library that prove some of this._

_Harry is talking to me through you? That's such a brilliant idea!_

_I'll let him know that you think that. I shall omit that __the possibility __never occurred to you, _Krabat says pompously and the tiniest bit ironically.

Hermione insists on her principles: _Tell him all of it._ _I am not ashamed to admit that I did not think of something first._

_Quite the contrary. You admit it freely and one day you will hurt your own forehead while doing __so._

Just then Hermione catches Harry looking at her and sees that he seems content with what he's seeing. Krabat rolls his eyes and answers the question she is about to ask: _Yes. _

_Really? Harry asked you to distract me from the current discussion and you just did it?_

The familiar sighs:_ Young Master Malfoy has a talent for putting his foot into his mout__h and __he __might__ manage to annoy you before he __manages to __die __from__ asphyxia, __in your friend's own words. __The young man's choice of words is certainly unfortunate but __Harry __is convinced __that Draco isn't really malicious. __I expect he will explain why he believes that, if you ask him. _

Harry isn't protecting his cousin from himself because he's in any way fond of him, Hermione knows that. He must have a far better reason. Also she herself has noticed how very anxious Draco is about his missing godfather. Also she hasn't actually _heard_ Draco say anything offensive, thanks to Harry's little distraction. Not yet.

**Ψ**

Harry allows himself to relax, but not too much. Draco is trying when he is trying and insufferable when he isn't. Right now he has gotten the worst of his worry for his dear godfather off his chest, but Harry expects at least another irritating speech about political alliances before the day is over. (More, if Draco were to ingest Pepper Up, coffee or sugar.)

Ron and Harry have asked Viktor why he is putting up with Cousin Draco and his moods, snits, and general extended puberty. Viktor has told them about The Incident, how Draco only got a scar instead of loosing an eye and that Viktor is blaming his own inactivity and is inclined to make amends to Draco.

Harry sympathised with that view (he too tends to think he's responsible for everything and everyone) but his well-honed bullshit-meter had instantly instantly alerted him that Viktor was lying by omission. And then there was that one time during their training with the Durmstrang students when Nils suddenly barked something in That Language (the one Harry and Ron can't identify, let alone understand). Ron had been standing next to Nils and gotten a set of ringing ears for the remainder of the day, but Harry and Ron had confirmed that their new Durmstrang friends are sometimes odd about ...something.

Speaking of Ron, Harry really hopes the redhead will like his Christmas present, which is to say, will not be offended by Harry having bought it for him.

While Harry is inwardly lamenting Ron's unfortunate pride, Draco asks Hermione something about the next summer holidays, prompting a detailed description of the historical study project Hermione has planned for next summer "in order to get some much needed background on Runes."

"That's what the Runes fans always say. Then they become farmers who go for after-harvest viking," Viktor whispers.

(Draco's eyes flash as he launches into a passionate speech about epistemology.)

"Shouldn't that be viking-ing," Harry whispers back.

(Hermione's hair billows menacingly around her head.)

"I don't want to know. I hate Runes. Don't tell Hermione," Viktor says morosely, because Draco and Hermione are locked in vicious academic battle (who would have thought that Draco was philosophically inclined?) while Viktor finds himself ignored once more.

"That hair would never fit under a horned helmet, anyway," Harry tries to console him. There must be a way for Viktor to catch Hermione's attention, but how? Other than by Viktor threatening him, Harry, which Viktor is way too nice to consider, but maybe Harry should suggest it anyway?

A magically magnified voice booms through the house and the four students find themselves picked up by invisible hands and thrown unceremoniously into the library. They land rather painfully on their behinds. Draco and Hermione glare at each other, each clearly suspecting the other. Harry hastens to get between them before they curse each other and the wards fry them: "Look around you, for heaven's sake. The emergency wards transported us to the library because it's the most secure room in the house."

(Sirius has told Harry that the library can, among other things, move itself and its occupants into the deepest cellar, but that wont happen unless the outer wards fail, or fail to _deal_ with every living and / or undead thing in the strategic perimeter of the building. The legal ramifications of all that are just as amusing as the wards themselves.)

"Harry is right," says Sirius. "Do sit, all of you. We have news."

Dora rolls her eyes: "You can bring them up to speed after you've let me leave, Sirius. Yours truly is supposed to report immediately."

"Don't they teach basic warding at the Academy these days? The wards just blocked all entrances, Dora. We will have to wait a little longer. Kreacher, chairs for everyone, please."

Chairs appear, as well as a table laden with tea and treats. Dora concludes correctly that Kreacher knows the wards and doesn't expect them to release the inhabitants of the house any time soon. She groans.

"You can't be the only Auror in history who was delayed for duty by over-ambitious wards, Dora," Remus tries to console her. Dora brightens instantly and bats her (instantly slightly longer, being a Metamorphmagus can be _so_ practical) eyelashes at her werewolf-cuddly-toy-to-be, if Dora has anything to say in the matter.

Draco on the other side, always aggressive when when worried, is at Sirius's throat before Harry can get a word in: "Sirius, you have news. Did my father write or was it Dumbledore? It's about Severus, isn't it? Tell me everything!"

Always quick with his deductions, Draco is not asking _if_ something has happened to Snape. That can only mean, Harry thinks, that Draco is sure that something has happened. Sirius obviously agrees. He sighs, clears his throat and tries – for the boy's sake – to be calm and collected: "He hasn't been found, Draco. Sit down, please. Now. The news is this: The Aurors have found traces of Polyjuice Potion coded to Severus, both in Severus's house and in his private quarters in Hogwarts. Some are fairly old, others are fresh. They believe that the disappearance a couple of days ago was really the impostor leaving. They cannot tell yet when the switch happened. That means that somebody has been impersonating Snape for an unknown period of time. The castle and grounds are being combed for clues as to who that person was and what he was doing at Hogwarts. No matter the answers to that, the security of Hogwarts has been compromised. Dumbledore must examine the wards. The impostor could have tried to alter them. Alternatively, he might have latched additional spells on them. How to do that was openly discussed during my trial, as you may remember. Work on the wards is impossible with students running all over the place. Hence the evacuation. Finally, the students themselves need to be examined as well. The ministry decided that it would be best if that where to happen while the students are at home with their parents."

The meaning of this is all too clear: The unknown intruder is suspected of absolutely everything, from tampering with the wards to messing with the students. No-one wants to contemplate the possibilities, but it's all they can think about until Hermione breaks the silence and asks what will happen to the visiting students.

"The coach and the ship are moving to the grounds of their respective embassies. Viktor and Draco are to remain here until they are collected by an embassy official."

Draco sinks into a chair and jumps up again: "This is a family emergency. I must see my parents!"

Sirius hesitates and Remus steps in: "Severus is a regular visitor at Malfoy Manor, Draco. There are Aurors there right now. Your parents want you to stay away." Draco pales. Presumably at what Remus implied but didn't say. What is it with pure-bloods and hidden meanings, Harry wonders. Do they have to speak with pregnant pauses and precisely arched eyebrows? Can't they use words? Then his attention turns to the case: do regular visits to a home really warrant immediate official attention to the inhabitants? Are the Aurors actually using Snape as a pretext?

In a move as surprising as his complimenting the winter garden earlier, Draco does use regular vocabulary: "The Aurors have a warrant, haven't they?"

"An order to cooperate, actually. And it's only for your father, not for your mother. In fact, Narcissa's legal advisors are there right now."

That fails to reassure and Draco sighs heavily. Meanwhile, Harry's head is reeling: Why would Narcissa Malfoy have an independent team of legal advisors in the first place? Could it have been a just-in-case measure? The Malfoys can afford separate legal advisors for Lucius and Narcissa, obviously, but isn't that a lot of money to burn, even for them?

With Draco present Harry chooses not to ask any of this. If anybody deserves unfavourable ministerial attention it is Lucius Malfoy. But Draco should not have to hear people speculate about his father's dark deeds. Harry can ask Susan when he sees her again. Whenever that happens, with Hogwarts evacuated, Harry reminds himself.

"Aurors and legal advisors are not known for tact and reserve," Remus is saying just now. "Lucius knows that there might be some unpleasantness before they leave again. He does not want you to witness such a scene in your home."

Lucius Malfoy has been the subject of investigations before (as not even he can buy everyone at the same time, or keep them paid all of the time) but the result was always the same: silly little laws do not apply to _Lord Malfoy, _as his enemies call him (when he is safely out of hearing range). Worse still (in the eyes of those who can almost prove that Malfoy was the chief financier of Voldemort), the inner workings of the MoM and magical society are such that every past effort to make something stick has been followed by a long period of time during which Malfoy is absolutely untouchable.

Apparently, Remus continues, there has been ministerial disagreement concerning these measures. Some seem to feel that they are too severe. The word 'hysterical' has been used. Others have pointed out how very_ unfortunate_ it is that all this should happen while Hogwarts is hosting an international tournament, and what will all these foreigners _think_?

"People suggested to proceed as planned because they worried more about bad press abroad than about the safety of the students," Hermione asks bewildered.

"Some people did," Remus confirms.

"Worried about the icky firsties, Granger? Weren't you one of several first year students who were awarded hundreds of last minute points each for outstanding courage?" Draco demands suddenly. "What were they for, Gryffindor dumb luck?"

There they go again with Draco's temper, Harry thinks, but he remembers Dumbledore's visit in the infirmary after the events Draco mentioned. Dumbledore claiming that "the whole school knows" what happened with Voldemort and the Philosopher's Stone. The whole school hadn't known, Harry had found out months later, because if the events had been public knowledge the students would not have suspected Harry of being the Heir of Slytherin mere months later.

Nonetheless this raises some interesting questions. Given the popularity of wordless communication within wizard society, these last minute points and the resulting 'downfall of Slytherin' were much likelier to have been a message of sorts... to certain parents. But by that logic the opening of the Chamber of Secrets would have been a response to Dumbledore's message. These days Harry doubts that Lucius Malfoy would be careless with as rare and powerful an object as the diary. That Lucius is type to use an elephant when he wants to crack a nut. The nut being Arthur Weasley and his then-new Muggle Protection Act. Of course, Harry also knows that problems have a way of growing more complex and more bizarre under close scrutiny and chooses to not over-think the matter just now.

"The truth is that we had more luck than we deserved. However, Ron's game of chess and Hermione's deductions were awesome and Neville did try to make us see sense," Harry now admits to his erstwhile school nemesis.

"Luck is nothing to be ashamed of," Viktor says seriously. He knows what they are talking about, as Draco told him some about it when they left for England and he, unable to believe it, had asked Harry for confirmation: "But a headmaster should not play favourites."

"Exactly. What really buggers me is that the House Cup is supposed to reward a whole house for their efforts during a whole year and Dumbledore just turned it into a joke. If he really wanted to honour our extracurricular achievements he could have given us student awards. Make sure future students had something to polish during detentions."

Hermione nods in agreement.

"You two are turning out well despite his efforts," Draco – once again pale and collected – offers generously. "In Weasley's case it was a simple matter of him finding his niche, but you two seemed completely inimical to magical culture."

Harry feels Hermione tense again: "We were rather unaware of the existence of magical culture," he says non-committally. "We were told that magic exists, taken to Diagon for supplies and then left to believe that it was the culture we knew, only with different clothes and magic instead of technology."

"My parents were less naive than I was," Hermione interjects. "They did what they could to help me prepare and spend a lot of time in Diagon and other magical sites with me. They also paid a lot of attention to practical matters. For example, they asked the witch in the stationary shop to show me how to cut quills and had the apothecary's apprentice explain basic ingredient handling. What," she asks, misinterpreting Harry's perplexed expression, "who else should we have asked?"

Harry shakes his head: "No, that was a really good idea. It's just that Hagrid rushed me through the shops in Diagon, and he knew that I lived with magic-hating muggles. Seamus and Ron taught Dean and me how to cut quills, by the way. That lesson was hilarious. And Neville took us aside and explained that wizards invoke Merlin instead of divine personage."

"That was nice of him. I asked Parvati after I heard it for the second time and she send me to Padma for a detailed explanation. Anyway, my point is that we all did what we could. Justin Finch-Fitchley for example told me that his parents actually hired an art student to teach him calligraphy."

"Figures," Harry nods. "Didn't he say that he had been supposed to go to Eton? His parents would have hired all sorts of tutors for him."

Draco seems to feel that all this confirms his own views: "My point exactly, Potter! I know now that witches like Granger come from families that have been temporarily without magic and that it is not their fault that they have to live with muggles, but that's what school is for. Or should be. You need training. Culture is at least as important as Potions and Transfiguration."

Hermione tries not to frown. Draco makes magic sound like a wayward pet and his 'forced to live with muggles' sounds a little like 'being raised by apes'. She reminds herself that Harry believes that Draco has changed in profound ways and says nothing.

"Clearly, magical instinct does not get lost," Draco continues. "After all, Granger and her parents showed proper decorum when they named Granger's new familiar, and you cannot tell me that you read about it," he now addresses Hermione directly.

The truth is that Hermione had assumed 'familiar' to be wizard-English for 'pet'. Not something she cares to admit in present company: "It was not for lack of trying to find a book. Is that one of those things that are too basic to write about?"

"Yes," Viktor says, thinking that they should have kept Draco away from caffeine and sugar, he's worse than a hyper-kinetic four year old that way... Actually, Draco has been slipping into his old irritating character ever since he returned to England. He needs to be reminded what the terms of their agreement were. In private, obviously: "True familiars are very rare. So rare that not all wizards believe it happens. "

"Really? How would such wizards explain Fawkes," Harry names a current and widely-known example.

"A bored immortal creature," Draco snorts. "The height of bad manners, if you ask me, even if one dislikes Dumbledore. Anyway, if you are worthy to have a true familiar – and don't get me started on plebs who call their pets familiars – then the familiar himself will teach you everything you need to know. So there is no point in writing about it. If you are meant to know you will."

Never mind that Draco himself has no familiar and yet knows a lot about them. Determined not to be angered, Hermione affirms that: "Krabat is highly communicative."

"Told you so. Incidentally, have you yet found out who your family is?"

This is the second time he asks today, Hermione thinks. She so wants to snap that she certainly knows her parents, and her grandparents, and her assorted aunts, uncles and cousins. _Oh wait, these people are muggles and don't count, do they?_

With an effort she reminds herself that Draco's words may be poorly chosen_ (Again. How understanding is she supposed to be, exactly?)_ but that the question of her magical family, which must be somewhere, interests her as well. Her parents have put a lot of effort into their search for the magical connection. As far as she know with no results.

Remus, who had only wanted to check on the four, decides to intervene and clears his throat: "There is a lead, actually, but we don't have names yet."

Any sort of lead is news to Hermione who almost jumps in her seat and demands details. Remus, who believes in tactical distractions, grins: "After the regular approach, which as you know led no-where, we started to look for unusual patterns, and were almost too successful. Your family tree is full of interesting details, such as highly improbable births, considering the age of the mothers when it happened and the times they were living in. As I said, we have no name yet and I am currently awaiting data that should clarify matters. From abroad," he explains. "The candidates were immigrants."

Draco's eyes acquire a speculative gleam: "When did they come to Britain then?"

"Draco," Viktor says with a rare hint of impatience: "This is family history. The Grangers have to hear it first." Draco actually stutters an apology for his admittedly impertinent questioning and Harry smiles to himself. Sirius – when did he come back? And where is Dora? Did she leave after all? – catches Remus's eye and raises an eyebrow. Remus summons a chair for himself and settles for a nice impromptu lecture: "We can give you a general outline if you are interested. It's a very pretty little problem. As Draco just said, magic does not occur spontaneously, so the first step was to look for known Squibs in the Granger family tree."

"I would have liked to claim either of your parents as cousins," Sirius says brightly. "Did you know that Ted's maternal grandmother was a cast-out Black? Ted certainly lost no time in returning to the bosom of the family, the dog."

Welcome to the Land of Sirius Humour, Harry thinks and hastens to drag his dogfather back out of it before a fight breaks out: "Hermione is a honorary Potter, Padfoot. Find your own brain to adopt."

Sirius smiles indulgently at Harry and Remus continues: "We lost a lot of time that way, but this avenue often leads to results so it was a logical first step. Squibs are as sedentary as their actively magical relatives. As you may know, Hermione, magicals travel but they do not like to move. We like to stay within the magical tradition we grew up in."

"That's one of the sides of Durmstrang I appreciate most," Draco says. "We are all taught in the same Roman-Germanic tradition, but the students from different backgrounds are tutored in their native traditions as well, and the rest of us are encouraged to attend as well. Viktor here is a treasure trove for Greek and old Slavonic spells."

If Hermione is ever to notice Viktor she'll do it now, Harry thinks with baited breath. Unfortunately, it turns out that Beauxbatons operates on similar principles as Durmstrang (despite having a much smaller gathering ground). Worse still, Fleur has family all over Europe and is familiar with several magical traditions spells. She has been telling her ever curious assistant about them. For a short moment, Harry despises Fleur. A groan from Draco tells him that he is not alone.

Remus and Sirius, aware of the attempt to get Hermione to notice a certain (Ron-and-Harry-approved) Nice Young Man (who already likes her) take a moment to commemorate James. Lily Evans always was aware that James was around, unlike other oblivious know-it-alls. Moreover, Lily was never shy about letting James know exactly how she felt about his presence. James had found that very comforting. Too comforting, his friends had always thought, but maybe Lily had indeed always loved James underneath it all, as James had insisted from their first year.

As Remus and Sirius skilfully shift the four teenagers' attention to a general discussion of magical traditions, European History and studies in genealogy – with none but the barest hints to the possible ancestry of present company – they silently salute their missing friend. James Potter was never suave, his attempts at charm were enough to make McGonagall laugh. But he was one persistent pain in the arse.

**Ψ**

_I believe my guardians gave me the slip,_ Harry thinks at Hermione (via Krabat). _Figuratively speaking. _

_So it would seem, Mr Potter,_ answers the familiar._  
><em>

_Hello Krabat. __At least Dora made it to the Ministry. __What is Hermione thinking about __all __this? _

_She is currently occupied with several trains of thought. One concerns the distraction you just noticed yourself and why your guardians deemed it necessary. She believes it to be primarily for Master Draco's sake __as they expect unpleasant news – for Draco – from Malfoy Manor __and is trying to assess how probable that is._

_Remus believes it will come to nothing, _says Harry_._

_Remus is a pessimist, _says the bird (or Hermione).

_Hermione __is also pondering a theory of hers that concerns your Bulgarian friend,_ Krabat adds slyly.

_She's thinking about Viktor? Really?_

_She's wondering why he took Draco along to Britain._

So much for 'thinking about Viktor', Harry groans inwardly. What is it with that girl, do they have to serve Viktor on toast? (And can Harry have that image removed from his mind, please?)

_Why does she think that it was Viktor?_

_She'd say it's obvious._

Harry groans again. Then he realises that despite the mischievous way he did it, Krabat has confirmed that Hermione is indeed thinking about Viktor.

**Ψ**

Dora's report from Malfoy Manor is as good as Remus could ever hope for.

Malfoy Manor was not visited by Aurors. It was visited by three mid-level judges and five HitWizards. They arrived there with an order to cooperate, but they had clearly been looking for something specific and had known where to find it. And it only gets better.

_It seems, _Dora writes_, that Uncle Lucius did not even try to put up a fight. Several wizards who have no business having ministry posts, as they clearly do not understand human nature in general and Slytherins in particular are tut-tut-ting that Lucius'__s__ guilty conscience has caught up with him._

Draco, who has attained an impossible degree of bloodlessness in the face, smiles a little at that.

_The absence of Aurors at the scene indicates that my boss was _not_ in the planing of this.  
><em>

Dora knows her audience: her report is heavy on details and detailed descriptions of reactions. And rumours, or, in this case, the strange absence thereof. This lack poses a question that will undoubtedly trouble a lot of people for a very long time: How could that happen? How is it possible that _no-one __knew something?_

_Because, _writes Dora,_ these well-informed judges? They got their information when they received the order. No previous briefings, nothing, and we are _not_ talking about underlings. The papers have gone through all the necessary channels, obviously, but no-one can say for sure when they did it. Luckily, all this is happening while the ministry is overwhelmed with the re-organisation of the Triwizard and the attack on Madam Bones, so we cannot just take a day or so out and check the log books. __We will probably settle on 'long-standing __ministry effort' as an explanation, which is ministry-speak for "we have no bloody idea." W__ho knows, we might even blame it all on poor Arthur. He was the one who kept trying to pin something on Malfoy, wasn't he? Maybe it _is_ one of his many requests, one that even he forgot, that has been snowballing for years without anybody the wiser?_

_Just kidding._

**Ψ**

Draco does not disgrace himself by fainting, but for the longest time he doesn't speak, either. Instead he sits on a chair and lets the rest of Dora's report wash over him. Snippets of his two days home pass through his head as he does, and he compares them with what he hears. The resulting picture is clear. His parents had known that something was coming and they had not fought it. Instead they had prepared. Hence the appointment of a serious legal team for his mother. And, Draco supposes, the construction of that lovely cottage on the grounds that just happens to fulfil all requirements for being used for house-arrest. Officially the cottage had been for him, for when Draco returned to England for good, in four years' time. A space of his own, so that his dear old parents would not suffocate him, but close to home so that they would be able to see him often. How anybody could believe that tripe was beyond Draco, but he supposed that no-one but him understood his parents. Wasn't that par for the course, for a Malfoy?

He sighs deeply. Cousin Nymphadora mentions in her letter that the Durmstrang ship has moved to the grounds of the Swedish Embassy for the duration of the lock down. The others are there now. Draco heaves a heavy sigh.

"You could write your mother a note," Viktor advises him. "Tell her that you want to return to the others. We should be on the ship, by rights."

Draco would _love_ to return to ...the others. But somehow he did not tell his mother about... and some things should not be communicated in letters. He sighs heavier still.

"Or I could write for you," Viktor offers impatiently.

Viktor doesn't understand, Draco thinks miserably. How could he? How long has been trying to get Granger's attention and gotten no-where, and that with Draco guiding him, to boot?

"Draco, Viktor is right. All this is difficult for you. If you'd rather be with your friends we will get you to them," Sirius says solicitously, and Draco wants to cry, but he is a Malfoy and he pulls himself together: "Thank you, Cousin Sirius, but I'd rather stay and await my parents' letter. They will want to see me as soon as possible."

Viktor groans and snaps something in that language that not even Remus recognises. And Draco pulls himself together. Visibly: "On second thoughts, I think I will return to the ship. Mother can contact me there."

**Ψ**

"So, Snape is missing, the impostor who was at Hogwarts is missing as well and Hogwarts has been shut down for four days at the very least. On an unrelated note, the sky has fallen on our heads and the untouchable Lucius Malfoy is under house-arrest. The Malfoy accounts have been blocked (but for a stipend to cover 'immediate needs') until Draco comes fully of age. Under ordinary circumstances the Ministry chooses the place where the house-arrest is spend. Can't have the arrested enjoy a full social life while they are supposed to be cut away from society."

Short break during which the speaker stares hard into a tumbler filled with Firewhisky:

"Luckily for them, the Malfoys just happen to have a miniature manor that meets all security requirements on their grounds – brand-new, too – so Lucius can, or rather, has the right to – use that. Communication is monitored but spouses are allowed a degree of privacy. With Cousin Narcissa living within spitting distance, their married life will remain healthy, and woe betide anyone who wonders about their pillow talk. Incidentally, Narcissa has enough money of her own to afford basic luxury and can even have a try at buying people, as dear Lucy used to. Since she, of course, is completely unaffected by all this. Alternatively, she can accept that the Malfoys have left the stage until young Draco comes of age. That didn't rhyme, did it? Mooney, say it didn't!"

"Sirius. Please. Continue."

Sirius looks confused at Remus, then at his tumbler, then back at Remus. It has been a long, crazy day. Remus is exhausted as well. The tumbler contains no answers, only increasingly warm Firewhisky: "I think that was it."

"I think you are long past your bedtime, Pads. So am I," Remus sighs. "What a day that was."

Harry privately wishes that Fred and George were present. The general mood in the library is somewhat gloomy. "It wasn't bad, as such," he says. "If you don't mind the occasional surrealism. (It's Hermione's turn to groan.) Hermione has written to tell her parents that we wont return to school but they are working and wont have much time before Friday. So I wonder if we could have Ron come over as well," he casually asks his guardians.

"Of course we can," Sirius answers. "I'll send Kreacher to Molly and Arthur."

"Let me write it," Harry suggests. "I'll tell them that Hermione is still here and wants us to study together."

Sirius smiles: "That will work but Molly might decide to send the rest of the kids along."

_So she might,_ Harry thinks at his friend's familiar. _I was hoping for some time with Ron. I want to run recent events by him, and I also don't want his siblings here when I give him his present. They can be very intolerant of each other's sensitive spots._

_I__ say we risk the rest of the clan,_ says Hermione. _We'__ll __distract the others somehow, if they come. I__ want to see Ron as well__._

"Telepathy's funny, isn't it," Sirius drawls. "If you two ever learn to be less obvious about it it will be useful as well."

Harry fixes his beloved godfather with a deadly glare: "Hermione, are Fred and George subtle about their inaudible twin-speak?"

"Hardly, Harry."

"Would you say it is less useful for that?"

"Harry," Remus chides him. "Leave your godfather alone, he's had a long and improbable day."

"We even forgot to exchange presents," moans Sirius. "Can you believe that?"

"Curiouser and curiouser," quotes Harry and everybody laughs.

"Why don't we wait for Ron, then," suggests Hermione. "Exchange all of our presents instead of just presenting him with his. It might help with his issues."

"I hope it does. He's in for a good hex if it doesn't. The guys and I promised Parvati that her date would look decent for the ball."

"All of you promised? What gentlemen you are."

Harry shrugs: "She thought Ron might be overwhelmed by the task, and we can't let a lady down, can we?"

Hermione agrees that they can't (she worries that somewhere down the road she will regret having done so). Harry writes the note and Kreacher takes it to the Burrow. Arthur promptly answers that he will take Ron over tomorrow. So far so good. Harry and Hermione excuse themselves for a last discussion in the library. Sirius and Remus opt for a night cap of hot chocolate. With no alcohol in it whatsoever (Kreacher is glaring).

Chocolate does not change the facts. Azkaban cost Sirius a lot but it did not eradicate his Marauder years: Instinct insists that Arthur has Some Big Thing to do with all this. Arthur, in whom no-one believes so that people can freely joke about him being the Mysterious Instigator of the Incredible Dethroning of Lucius Malfoy. Sirius can imagine the tenor at the ministry: _That was somebody with influence or with the money to buy it. Black fits that bill, but Black "is still getting over his time in Azkaban. Didn't you hear, he hasn't even managed to renovate his house, for Merlin's sake!"_

All that is true. It is true that for Sirius the past isn't that long gone yet. _Maybe that's why his instincts are still intact. _

Arthur Weasley is a devoted family father who nearly lost a child in an unimaginably cruel way less than two years ago. Apparently Dumbledore patted Arthur on the shoulder and discreetly treated the Weasleys to an expensive holiday in Egypt.

Sirius had plans for dealing with Lucius Malfoy. Complex plans, it is true. Lucius is, no: was that central to the magical Sirius's plans were never set into motion, however. Somebody else got the Invisible One. But who, for f-

Sirius thinks that Dora is right, snowballing was undoubtedly involved. And Draco (who hasn't yet mastered the art of not being obvious to wizards who learned not being obvious from the same master as Draco did, namely one Alphard Black; apparently there is stuff missing from Durmstrang curriculum) is right as well: Lucius had seen it coming. He had prepared but he had not resisted.

**Ψ**

"It wasn't Sirius, Hermione. No fucking way. When should he have done it, he was released in late August. He'd be dead of Liquid Luck overdose if that had been him."

Hermione makes a mental note to research Liquid Luck: "Harry, we have established that he knew, and we are both convinced that only those who actually did something would know something."

"We can be convinced and still be wrong. This is too big for Sirius. Even the fabled Black fortune can't buy the necessary connections that fast and remain a fortune. Anyway, how would Sirius of all people know what with to terrify Malfoy into accepting this?"

"Malfoy has been easy to terrify those last two years. Sending Draco to Durmstrang, restoring my parents memories. Always assuming that the person who looked like him wasn't polyjuiced."

"Damn. I totally forgot about that."

"I wish I could."

"I bet you do. Now, can we try our luck with Riddles notes?"

"Do you really believe it could be Voldemort?"

"I don't believe it, but I just don't see who else could frighten Lucius Malfoy like that." He flashes a grin: "Merlin would probably do. Do you want to consider Merlin?"

"You know my opinion on that matter,"Hermione growls. "Very well, let's look at bloody Tommy's notes."

**Ψ**


	21. Family matters II

**_Chapter 15, wherein young Ronald sorrows  
><em>**

The truth is that Harry expects Hermione to change her mind before they have reached the library, but she doesn't. However, when they ask Sirius for the book (Sirius is still the only one who can remove it from the shelf) Hermione announces that she'd like to "approach the problem without preconceived ideas". Meaning alone, as everyone else currently in the house has already tried their luck. She suggests comparing notes later.

Remus approves of that approach. He calls it 'scholarly'. Sirius frowns and reminds her that the wards will send her to bed if they register overwork, that she is not to let it come to this, and that there is such a thing as being overzealous. But he fetches the book anyway.

_Outsmarted_, Harry thinks grimly. He has been thinking about the events of the morning, about what he saw in Hermione's mind-space, and he is increasingly alarmed about it. He is no longer interested in the content of Riddle's notes. (Even if they aren't outdated blackmail fodder, as Sirius, based on his childhood memories of Orion Black, thinks.) Not much, or not right now. Right now he and Hermione _need_ to talk. He had wanted to talk in private, but between the chaotic day they've just had and- Well. Recent events. Truthfully, the cascading events of the recent past are not Hermione's fault. The two of them still need to discuss the time-travel episodes that took place during third year. Urgently.

It's really funny, Harry thinks, that his friend should worry about Ginny Weasley and how the girl is dealing with the aftermath of possession, but not about her own utterly inexplicable experience. Hermione would not have shrugged it off if anybody else had been transported fifty years into the past. Repeatedly. And straight into the arms of the one wizard who could wreak havoc with any sort of information, never mind what he could have gotten out of a time-traveler. True, for the longest time Hermione had not been aware that time-travel had occurred. And yes, then the strangest things kept happening afterwards. Admittedly, a castle inviting you for tea is one hell of a distraction. Never mind the rest. But this is long-distance time-travel they are talking about! And Tom freaking Riddle!

"Ten galeons Miss Granger just happens to know an obscure spell that tortures books," Remus offers with a grin and Sirius snorts: "That's a sucker bet, Moony. Did you see that glint in her eye? That was a Type B glint already. Beware of everyone who can produce a Type B glint without actually looking at the offender."

Remus, his usual professorial façade back in evidence, explains that Sirius started a type system of ocular danger signals when they where in their sixth year. Alas, that ground-breaking work was lost when Sirius decided to differentiate between glints Type A/B ("run!") and Type A ("too late"), and that no accurate description of either type would be possible without direct comparison. Meaning: the researcher had to observe both types of glint _at the same time. _

"What Remus is trying to say is that very intelligent people sometimes tend to keep secrets, not because they don't want to share, but because they feel compelled to sort them out first. On their own," Sirius says seriously, thus further perplexing his already bewildered godson.

"How is Remus's story related to the special brand of idiocy of intelligent people," said godson asks with no little agitation.

Sirius beams at Remus: "I told you Harry understands the method in my madness."

Harry is beginning to understand why Mrs Weasley objects to Remus and Sirius as surrogate parents. It's because she thinks of them as being older versions of her twins. What will Mrs Weasley do when the actual twins- No, Harry is_ not_ getting off track here!

"You two think you know what is bothering me and think I am making a mountain out of a molehill, don't you?"

Remus and Sirius frown (each in his own characteristic way).

"Not at all," says Sirius. "We cannot tell what your original problem might be, other than that it concerns Hermione. We know however that you are worried about her being secretive, and torn between giving her time and just taking the problem to the grown-ups yourself."

"We are not laughing about you, Harry. Us being the grown-ups is what amuses us," Remus assures Harry, but these days Harry's tempers leave as quickly as they come, if they come at all. Harry's new predominant mood is thoughtful. In that he reminds Sirius more of James's parents than of James and Lily. Though James and Lily, had they lived, might conceivably have matured into that harmonic mix of all the best Gryffindor and Slytherin traits of the elder Potters. Sirius isn't just thinking that because he was awfully fond of the elder Potters, of course. If only-

He catches himself: "To my mind the answer to your second problem is simple. Ask yourself if Hermione would make you tell me about it if it were your secret instead of hers."

"She definitely would," Harry answers with conviction. "As a matter of fact, last year she would have gone behind my back to McGonagall."

"I understand that Hermione used to place a lot of trust in authority; nonetheless, that indicates serious danger. Do you believe that Hermione has a chance to solve her problem alone?"

"She hasn't tried to solve it yet," Harry exclaims frustrated. "She's too busy reproaching herself for ...having a problem in the first place." _For not having recognised Lord Voldemort in an utterly normal, even nice, Hogwarts student when she hadn't even realised that she had somehow landed backwards in time._"She's not being rational about this. Not at all."

"Is whatever happened likely to happen again," asks Remus, and Harry explains that the main problem is not what happened but how it could have happened in the first place.

"Youth these days," sighs Sirius. "Always bumping into old-and-forgotten magic or magic that is supposed to be impossible. Our forays into forbidden magic were nothing in comparison. The Restricted section has a whole shelf on the Animagus Transformation! You'd think they were begging students to sneak inside and make illegal copies!"

Remus rolls his eyes in a most Hermione-ish way and begs Sirius to refrain from being himself, for the time being: "Harry, you need to consider something else as well: Hermione is now Sirius's ward in the magical world. He is supposed to protect her. Even more important, the Grangers are our friends. This is our responsibility, as well."

_She would have __alerted __somebody __if this had been my secret, _Harry reminds himself._ She would have said that friends need to look after their friends, even if the friends themselves are part of the problem. _But he, Harry, can't speak about it. As much as he wants to: "The lack of opportunity since I found out about it myself has been a problem," he explains. "I was going to confront her in the library now, but you heard her saying that she wants to look at the notes on her own first."

Harry tells himself that he hasn't hinted at the nature of Hermione's secret, or let out why Tom Riddle's notes would have been a particularly good opportunity.

"That was not a bad plan at all. Why don't you go after her now and confront her?"

"I assumed she guessed what I was thinking and evaded on purpose," Harry answers insecurely. "And if she didn't, then I don't want to interrupt Hermione when she's studying something."

Sirius smiles: "That can't be entirely true, or you would never talk to Hermione, who spends most of her waking hours studying. I think you are stalling and I think it's because you are used to dealing with everything by yourself, or only with Hermione's and Ron's help. But remember that you now have us as well."

Harry nods miserably. Then he straightens his shoulders and goes to have a hopefully not too awful disagreement with one of his two closest friends.

Chance turns out to have done his work for him already. Hermione seems very glad to see him and eager to talk about her short experience with the diary: "It's intelligent, for lack of a better word. It's almost as if it could tell who I am, could tell what my strengths and weaknesses are, and can use the latter against me."

"That sounds like Tom Riddle all right," Harry observes darkly.

"It does, doesn't it," Hermione says quietly. She is not looking at Harry, but her thoughts are as clear as if they were written in bubbles over her head. Harry has been thinking about her fears and regrets, as he saw them in her memories, and there is one question he wants to ask above all, but it's the sort of topic that has to be approached with great care: "I don't know if I ever told you, but when Arthur Weasley heard about the other diary he berated Ginny for having used it in the first place."

"Was that when you had just saved her from the Chamber of Secrets," Hermione asks, and Harry nods in agreement. "Poor Ginny, no wonder she can't get over it! She found the diary with her personal things and must have thought it was a gift from her parents. I don't know if you know, but charmed diaries are very popular gifts for first years. As are stuffed animals, charmed to talk to their owners."

Harry had no idea, never having been interested in toys, but Hermione is going where he wants her to go, argument wise, so he takes care to encourage that. He points out that the Horcrux diary had been old and battered and already had a name on it.

"Well, yes," Hermione explains. "They always do. The point of these toys is to be a kid's imaginary friend. Besides, Weasley kids only get new stuff as a reward, don't they? Ron came to Hogwarts with a barely functioning wand."

Harry heroically keeps himself from smirking contentedly, and goes for the killing: "I think the words Arthur used were more or less 'I told you to never trust anything that can think if you cannot see where it keeps its brain'."

Obligingly, Hermione snorts _and_ rolls her eyes: "Really? So Ginny should have mistrusted the Sorting Hat, or maybe the portraits?"

"I think what Arthur meant was that she should have recognised the diary as being suspicious."

"Suspicious magical objects are in Mr Weasley's line of work. But unless Mr Weasley takes his work home, Ginny has never laid eyes upon such an object. I see what you are trying to say, by the way. I know I have been irrational about the time travel-thing, but can't you see why I would be?"

"Because you are supposed to be that know-it-all," Harry teases her. "Or because you never made friends easily and should have been naturally suspicious about an unknown guy being friendly to you," he continues, now absolutely serious.

"I ...I don't know what I was thinking, or if I was thinking at all," Hermione admits. "I know that for the longest time, I had convinced myself that it could not have happened because it was improbable, on top of being impossible. Of all the people who had ever passed through Hogwarts, I had met that one? It seemed preposterous." She pauses for a long moment: "The funny thing is that if I had been aware that I was traveling that far through time, I might well have chosen to go to Riddle's time. Neutralising him while he was at school would have been very neat." Here she pauses for a moment: "Which goes to show what an ego I have, I suppose. Riddle would have been quite dangerous already, wouldn't he? Maybe some part of my brain knew that, and chose confusion as the best defence against my own stupidity. Maybe Krabat will know."

For a very long moment Harry says nothing. Then: "I... for a moment I thought you say something about saving him."

"Saving whom," Hermione asks confusedly. "I mean, apart from everyone else, obviously."

"Er... Riddle? From himself?"

_Aren't girls supposed to be understanding,_ he wonders confused. Isn't Hermione regularly telling Harry and Ron that they have the emotional spans of... whatever small objects she can think of at that time?

"Riddle! How could I have_ saved _Riddle in a couple of flash-backs?"

"I was thinking about a longer period of time," Harry admits sheepishly.

"I'll say," Hermione snorts. "Ten years, at the very least, starting with his birth."

"You think he was born evil then," Harry asks carefully, hoping he's misunderstood his friend completely, for if he hasn't-

"I don't," Hermione says flatly, and suddenly changes track again: "That doesn't happen. I am not thinking about Tom Riddle at all, if I can help it, that's all. Why are we talking about him now? Harry, Tom-in-your-head was not what you thought he was if you are beginning to feel sympathy for Voldemort."

"I am doing nothing of the sort," counters Harry. "I have been thinking about what motivates people in general, and about what motivates them to hurt others in particular."

"That's an important question, philosophically speaking," Hermione says uncertainly. She has been inside Harry's head, to the extend that that's possible, and thinks that the soul-splinter left nothing bad behind, but what if she was wrong?

Harry sighs deeply: "It's like the problem of Pettigrew. You see, even though Remus and Sirius never mention him when they think I can hear them I know that it bothers them. They thought the four of them were closer than brothers, and up to a point they must have been, but then something changed, and they need to know what that was in order to ... lay the past at rest. It's a bit like that, I need to understand how all that came to be, too. I also wonder about Dumbledore, to tell you the truth, and all the things he has done, and how he probably still believes that he's essentially a good person. And I cannot help wonder about Tom Riddle. Morals aside, Voldemort was just so... remarkably stupid and short-sighted in his choices."

"Was he, Harry? He had been conquering Magical Britain when you stopped him. Accidentally, and by way of magic no-one understands, even after all those years."

"Don't remind me," says the boy-who-should-really-have-been-dead. "But implausible magic is not impossible, if you catch my drift, girl-who-speaks-with-heaps-of-stones. And I suspect that Tom Riddle, of all people, would have known that. He had become as powerful as Dumbledore when he was less than half as old. They say it was because he practices Dark Magic, but... I think that if Dark Magic was a sure-fire way to gain Voldemort-level powers, then wizards would be practising it routinely. Unless you want to argue that wizards are more moral than muggles."

Hermione believes nothing of the sort and says so. She also agrees with Harry's reasoning about power and Dark Magic. But: "What does all that have to do with Tom Riddle's original motives?"

"They are one of too many things that make no sense," says Harry."I need to start somewhere, and I think that contradictions are a good place to do it."

People and their motives rarely make sense, Hermione thinks involuntarily, but still tries to understand her best friend:"You want to give the other side a chance to explain itself?" The question _after all he did to your family_ descends upon them like a cold and awful fog. And Harry explodes a little:

"Did I say that? I do not give damn about Tom Riddle! It's the good guys that worry me! I'd like my own side to explain why a third-year had a time-turner. Percy Weasley must have been planning his Ministry of Magic career since before he entered Hogwarts. If time-turners were standard equipment for overachieving students he'd have had one, but he didn't. Once again, it's you who is the exception."

Hermione is too taken aback to respond so Harry continues: "Don't you see? Strange things keep happening both to you and me, but we never question them. Because both you and I have been encouraged from the beginning to think of ourselves as special."

Obstinately, Hermione wants to protest. _Surely my own experiences were just accidents, _she thinks_. _Harry guesses what she's thinking and gives her a Look that would have made McGonagall proud: "I really don't get it. You are completely paranoid when it comes to my safety and utterly naïve when it comes to yours."

"I just don't see it," Hermione tries to explain herself. "Conspiracies are about important persons. You are that important to the magical world. I am not." Being accused of _insufficient_ paranoia is a new experience, but Harry is intelligent and has an eye for hidden danger that she, in all honesty, lacks. Even if he doesn't always get the culprit right: "Whatever. Don't mind me. I don't see it but I trust you. If you think that it is important to find out how and why Tom Riddle turned into Voldemort it probably is."

Can she say that she is worried about the Riddle-fragment in Harry's head, wondering if it really left after all?

"I told you I am interested in contradictions. I want to know why the supposedly good side plays dirty," Harry says flatly. "And I am curious if Tom Riddle too was encouraged to think of himself as an exception to all rules."

**Χ**

Remus and Sirius listen solemnly to Hermione's story and Harry's explanations. They thank the the two teens for confiding in them, and send them to their beds to sleep the matter over, it has been a very long day after all. Then, in the time-honoured way of everyone who has ever given good advice, they ignore it themselves. Without Krabat, Sirius and Remus might well have defied Kreacher's solicitous bullying, and spend the night in their chairs, with their dark thoughts and a bottle or two of Firewhisky for company. As it is, the crow familiar announces that "their logical faculties are impeded by shock and exhaustion" and sends them to bed. Too tired and dispirited to argue, the two friends obey. Now, having slept the matter over, they are beginning to see what the bird meant. Any scenario that involves Dumbledore _and_ the Department of Mysteries is bad news. Last night, Remus and Sirius had been deeply angry (with some people, scare translates as anger). Today they think that the whole affair is smelling fishy, and they don't mean fish canapés. How had Hermione gotten that time-turner in the first place? Surely the restrictions on time-turners were still pretty severe. Amelia _did_ mention in passing what a bother it is to get her Aurors licensed for one, and that the shiny new people she's getting promoted after the attack on her house will all have to go through it. Sure, McGonagall _might_ have met an old student and asked for a favour, but the old student would have asked for a favour in return. And Unspeakable involvement, or even interest, would go a long way to explain the numerous strange incidents around the friends of one Harry Potter, the boy-who-survived-mysteriously. In whom the Department of Mysteries can't help being interested.

Which means that any ties between Hogwarts and the notoriously uncommunicative Department of Mysteries will have to be looked into. Weren't they going to look into that anyway? Time flies, dammit. Whatever. They'll do it now. They can start with Minerva and her hypothetical time-keeper pals.

**Χ**

Hermione awakes rather abruptly to find a familiar and an elf (intimidating in his starched pillow case and high collar) peer intently at her. The familiar decides that she is "all right, too" and the elf nods like a general who almost approves of his troops. A small tray with a magnificently aromatic cup of tea floats into her direction. Kreacher announces that "Miss Hermione will drink her tea and then they'll get dressed".

Did he say_ they_ will get dressed?

The tea may be the best tea in the world and worthy of prolonged admiration, but Hermione empties her cup in a single swallow. She has a feeling she'll need it.

"You look different," Harry comments when Hermione appears for breakfast.

For the second time in so many days, her hair is tidy and center-parted and coiled. Today she wears it in _two_ buns that look like prehistoric fossils. Chronically messy-haired himself, Harry senses her emotional upheaval and tries to reassure his friend: "Very nice, but different."

Slowly, very slowly, Hermione turns to look at him:"It's shining. Isn't it?"

"It's dazzling," Harry confirms and Hermione winces: "The hair is not the worst of it," she whispers. "Kreacher ...did something to my clothes!"

_Of course he did,_ Harry thinks,_ he's Kreacher._

Hermione's jeans, shirt and jumper also look different. They fit her far better than a woolly jumper and regular, non-stretch jeans have any right to. Harry wonders how Kreacher did it, and decides that there are things man is not meant to know. But as he is taking in the changes to his friend's hair and apparel, he realises that the elf has been showing unusual restraint. (He did not, for example, accidentally burn Hermione's muggle clothes and force her into robes. For a while, the regular inhabitants of Number 12 would be regularly woken by the tell-tale smell of burned fibre. Remus, already subjected to the no-tea-treatement over summer, gave in almost at once, but Sirius desisted until Kreacher burned the pajamas he had been wearing that night.) Is it because Hermione is not a member of the family? Even if, according to wizarding law, she is? It's too baffling, but Harry can't devote more thought to the matter because just then two distraught Weasleys step out of the biggest fireplace and into Number 12.

**X**

Harry, like everybody who has spend any length of time around a Weasley, has heard about the perfection that is Bill, and is regarding him curiously. Up close Bill is as tall and handsome as his mother claims he is, while the pony tail, fang earing, and dragon hide garb hint at serious "cool oldest brother" credibility. _So far so good,_ Harry thinks. But Bill is very tense, which does nothing for his allure. And while Ron catches his friends' eyes and grins briefly, all in all he looks decidedly unhappy.

Some of that may be due to his more-disheveled-than-usual robes. Ron's latest growth spurt went into two dimensions instead of the usual one, and despite the obscene amounts of food Ron inhales at every meal, it is not his midsection that has gathered momentum. No, Ron has been growing pleasantly carot-shaped. The only problem is that while Ron's school robes have the expensive grow-along-charm, his regular clothes are clearly overwhelmed. In the frozen grandeur of Number 12 Grimmauld Place (Ron does not know yet that most rooms beyond the entrance room are stripped bare, and is obviously impressed, even cowed), and with every other occupant coiffed and dressed to Kreacher's standards, Ron is looking shabby, and he knows it.

_That will never do,_ Hermione thinks and sidesteps the congregation in front of the fireplace (Harry is listening to Sirius and Bill while pretending to be just standing around like a well-brought up young wizard): "Duelling practice is agreeing with you, Ron," she greets her other best friend and hugs him. Or tries to. She can no longer reach around him!

Ron brightens instantly: "I am getting as big as Charlie! I even broke a chair yesterday, by mistake, just as he always does! Fred and George told me I am turning into an oaf, but Ginny says they are just jealous."

Hermione – who has never heard of breaking furniture as a rite of passage but likes to keep an open mind when Trelawney isn't around – beams at Ron: "You are enormous! I can't even break your ribs any more!"

"You are just standing wrong," Ron says helpfully. "Grabbing a bigger opponent is a question of technique. I'll show you a hold Viktor showed me. I used it on Nils and it worked, and Ginny totally threw Charlie on his back with it, and he's about three times her size."

"I think that demonstration of Ginny's athletic prowess was part of why mum does not approve of your current surroundings, Ron," Bill interrupts his youngest brother gravely.

_He's like a rude version of Percy, _Hermione thinks surprised, _and not how his brothers – including Percy – describe him at all. _Then Bill's words and the fact that Ron is several hours early click into place: this year's Christmas at the Burrow must have been severely uncomfortable this year.

"Yeah. I need to stay out of mum and dad's way for a while," says Ron, once again dejected. Hermione feels an irrational urge to snap at Bill, for the problem surely is just that Molly and Arthur are stressed, or worried or whatever. She herself slept through the Great Christmas Lunch, but Harry has already told her that even Arthur had not been his usual jovial self.

"That's what Charlie and I thought, at any rate" Bill says, voice fractionally warmer. "My own mum-handling skills need mending as well, I am afraid, but there's no reason why Ron should suffer."

Sirius smiles weakly, observes that recent events were unsettling and that Molly in particular has always been prone to worry, and does Bill have to return to the Burrow right now? Bill has to. His brothers are holding the fort, so to speak, but his parents expect their aunt and a cousin any moment now, and he really needs to return, even if he mislaid his favourite-son-hat in some ancient tomb or the other.

From which remark everyone in the room deduces that the atmosphere chéz Weasley must be at an all-times-low. Awkward silence ensues. Sirius catches himself first and suggests that Harry and Hermione take Ron to the winter garden, then assures Bill that of course Ron can stay as long as he wants, and is Sirius to call upon Arthur and Molly if Ron is still with them when the students are allowed to return to Hogwarts?

The three friends leave Bill and an uncharacteristically chatty Sirius behind and retreat to the winter garden once more where Kreacher has already laid out breakfast for three. Though why the elf included apparently homemade buttebeer Hermione cannot guess.

It turns out to be another instance of elfin insight into human nature. The warm, spicy drink cheers Ron no end, and soon he is making fun of what sounds like a dreadful day at home.

Apparently, Arthur and Molly are worried about the company their two youngest are keeping. In Ginny's case that would be the rather eccentric Luna Lovegood, in Ron's case the Durmstrang students. According to her parents, Ginny is "too impressionable" to be hearing about non-existent creatures all the time. Ginny's mentioning nargles in a joke and showing off a handmade fluffy heliopath (Luna's Christmas present) has been taken as proof that Ginny is being led astray. Ron and his brothers think that Ginny is slowly beginning to be her old self. Didn't she threaten Percy with a bat-bogey-hex, for the first time since before "the bloody mess"? Ron claims that Percy was overjoyed ("For a moment he got his wand out of his- sorry Hermione!") and Charlie, upon being thrown on his back (the giant-defeating hold Ron was speaking about) announced that he was going to buy Ginny a new broom.

Where Ginny's brothers saw their traumatised sister returning to her old playful (what a family with the twins among their members considered playful) self her parents saw something less good. Ron is not sure what, but he heard his mother berate Charlie for not offering to buy "something nice, like really new dress robes" instead.

Harry groans: "Oh come on. Your mum wouldn't try to mold Ginny into-"

"Some silly girl," interrupts Hermion, and looks questioningly at her two friends: "How do you know that she wouldn't? She's always struck me as the homely type."

"Mum nags a lot, sometimes, but she always lets us do what we really want, in the end. She did not want Bill and Charlie to choose such dangerous careers, but once she realised that they were serious about it she gave them her blessing."

Hermione bites her lip lest she shares another tactless observation about Ron's parent.

"The problem is," Ron continues, "it sometimes takes such a long time for mum to stop nag. And dad's pretending that everything is all right isn't helping, either. Do you know, they really think I spend too much time with Nils and the others."

"That's your sparring partner from Durmstrang, right? What is wrong with him?"

"He attends Durmstrang," Ron says wryly. "Apparently all that duelling practice is turning me Dark, and the dangerous magic (they did not believe it wasn't a hex and dad refused to let us demonstrate) I am showing Ginny proves that."

Hermione regards Ron pensively. Her own parents are firm believers in physical exercise, and Ron's recent development seems to prove them right. The impressive new shape (she _had_ been worried about his food intake) is only one improvement. Even she, distracted as she was by preparing with Fleur, noticed that he had started carrying himself more confidently. While he hasn't shown hitherto hidden intellectual depth (like Harry has), the quality of his homework has improved, and he has been participating actively in lessons. Ron is coming into his own, as they say. Was there a particular trigger for that? He did show remarkable initiative when he flew to Hogsmeade to tell Sirius about the Goblet of Fire on Hallowe'en, instinctively deciding that this time their families had to know what was happening to them. But he'd had no reason to worry for his friends since.

Hermione is inclined to think that Molly is right, sort of. It is the new environment.

More than a few of the male Hogwarts students are awed by the Durmstrang contingent, and these impressive visitors have welcomed Ron into their midst. Whatever the reasons for the initial welcome (Hermione has not forgotten the first discussion she had ever spied on while having faded), Ron's evident talents in chess and duelling have won him friends among the exchange students. The Hogwarts students in turn have stopped comparing him to his older brothers.

And now that he's finally coming into his own, all his parents are seeing is a young hoodlum. Ok, so his hair had grown along with the rest of him, but... honestly! Ron, of all people!

While Hermione is seething with the terrible injustice of the world, Ron is defending his parents: Gringotts still had no opening for Bill to return to England, and Charlie was still married to his dragons. Arthur and Percy had barely three days off between them; Molly had felt that that was due to their low status at the ministry, but Percy had actually taken pride in his being required to work overtime. And Arthur's explanations (all ministry employees were working overtime due to the overwhelming workload created by the Triwizard, and no, Percy's bosses were not already relying on him) had barely pacified Molly. Percy however was now sulking.

Bill had volunteered to collect his younger siblings from Hogwarts when the school had been evacuated, presumably because he had wanted to warn them that the news of the attack on Madam Bones and the evacuation of the school "did not exactly help with mum's anxiety, so be really careful what you say, all right? Fred, George, I am looking at you."

Harry snickers at the image, but Ron is still dead serious: "Gringotts must be working Bill like mad. I mean, he's terribly ambitious and wants to make Senior Curse Breaker as soon as possible, but he's not himself anymore. He could always get around mum, and suddenly he's all quiet and waits for Charlie to take the lead. He was all right when he came to Hogwarts to get us, but the moment we entered the Burrow he changed. He won't make fun of Perce – Bill's the only one who is allowed to make fun of Percy, you know, and it does Percy good – he won't even talk Quidditch with Ginny! We thought she'd go all gloomy again! Becoming Senior Curse Breaker before he's thirty can't be that important!"

Hermione starts a mental list with Molly's and Arthur's woes and puts the absence of two sons on the top. Followed by their third son's refusal to consider that maybe, just maybe, he should not work himself into oblivion. Followed in turn by Percy's determination to get into a position where that glorious fate will find him as well. _Note to self: some Weasley boys are exceptionally ambitious / have no sense of self-preservation. Also, I __keep__ underestimat__ing__ how awful a reminder the attack on __the Head of the DMLE__ inside her own home must be, for wizards who remember the last war. Why, Molly and Arthur might even be worried about Snape, kind as they are. And somehow __all __that worry got re-directed __towards__ Ron and Ginny. __What a mess,_she concludes silently.

_Indeed,_ says the gravely voice of her familiar. _But it could have been much worse._

_How could it have been worse, _Hermione protests hotly._ And where have you been anyway?_

_I was needed elsewhere. _Then he speaks loudly: "Master Weasley is in sole possession of his own mind. The impostor did not hurt him in any way I can detect."

"Thank God for small favours," Sirius says fervently from the door.

God. Not 'Merlin'.

Ron is the first to get it.

For the second time in twenty four hours Sirius has to reassure an agitated young man that his family is all right. The sudden changes in Bill Weasley have nothing to do with his ambition to become the youngest Senior Curse Breaker alive. Not because this scheme is less ambitious than Percy Weasley's career plans, but because the person who just spent three days in the bosom of Bill's family is not Bill. And nobody knows who he (or she, or it) might have been. Or why they impersonated Bill.

It seems that the wards had alerted Sirius about two incoming guests: one who was actually who he said he was – namely Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's other best friend – and another, who was not presumed dangerous, but about whose identity nothing could be ascertained. In what little time he had had to decide, Sirius had locked the rest of the house down against possible intruders and warned Kreacher. Kreacher could take Remus and Harry into safety if he had to, but Sirius had to talk to the stranger. Ron might have been in danger, and had to be brought out of harm's way. Which meant letting the magically masked stranger enter the house.

It really had all happened too fast for fear. Thankfully, Remus had known that something was wrong (he did not have a wolf's keen scent but he was close) and had stood by. Thankfully, Hermione had engaged her friend and gotten him away from the impostor in a perfectly natural way. If only Harry had not stuck to his side! Sirius had tried to engage the stranger in small talk. He'd hoped his wards would get through and find out who he was if they had more time. They hadn't. He'd hoped the stranger would say something, anything, that would point to his real identity. Of course the stranger hadn't, but Sirius had hoped.

And now he has a red head towering over him and demanding to know if his brother is all right, that he is all right, where he is, what happened, and how-

"Junior Curse-breaker William Weasley is still on site in Egypt," says am unmistakably goblin voice. Ron almost falls in his haste to reach the speaker and repeat his fervent questions. Next thing anybody knows Ron is shaking the goblin as he was shaking Sirius a moment ago. Everybody else freezes in terror. Then Ron too comes back to his senses, and it turns out that he knows something about goblins after all. Instead of apologising for the huge faux pas of touching a goblin, which would make everything much worse, Ron slowly lets go of the goblin's collar and steps back. Gulping audibly. From where Hermione sits it looks like he's stretching his neck to expose his throat.

The goblin nods briefly and resumes speaking as if nothing had happened: "The exact location of the site is a Gringotts secret. However, we can assure you, as a close relative, that our employee is always in sight of several senior employees, and that there is no doubt as to him being actually himself. I am also informed that he is in perfect health," he adds in a slightly warmer tone.

Sirius takes over the story: "I contacted Gringotts the moment the impostor had stepped outside the outer wards. The wards have recorded his or her presence inside this house and nothing else. Between you and me and Senior Teller Bloodaxe, I can say that that is a bad sign. It's not for nothing that my wards are illegal, but never mind that for now. We were talking about Bill. As you all know, security is of the utmost importance to Gringotts. The goblins take attacks on their employees very seriously, and impersonation counts as intent to attack. They ascertained that Bill never left Egypt, and their security on site insists that he has had no contact with any suspicious characters, other than the odd vengeful ghost haunting an ancient tomb."

Bloodaxe takes over again: "Junior Director Frarak authorised more guards for this site. I am also given to understand that William Weasley is scheduled for a week off and a visit to your parents once his current project is terminated."

"As to the unknown visitor, Gringotts experts are examining the wards of the floo network as we speak. Master Black believes that the intruder has a truly hidden signature. Obviously, he cannot go to the Aurors with his own readings alone."

"If I do that the Aurors will have to check my wards themselves, and that would end badly. Even if no-body dies gruesomely," Sirius says with a grimace. (Not too long ago, some bloodthirsty-to-the-point-of-dementia master of the House of Black had updated the wards with exactly that eventuality in mind.)

Bloodaxe continues: "Our experts don't have to access the wards directly. Our magic is well suited to studying the effects of effects and the residue of residue without leaving traces of our own."

_Is it just me or is he gloating, _Hermione silently asks her familiar.

_They routinely do magic that humans only attempt after years of study_, is the answer. _What do you think?_

_I think that both species have adjusted to what they were given, genetically speaking. Or are goblins generally more adept with magic than humans? _

_By no means, _says Krabat_. Can you pinpoint exactly why you dislike Senior Teller Bloodaxe? _

Hermione bites her lower lip_: I don't dislike him personally, but something more is going on here. When he said that they have raised the number of guards for the site I wondered who they are guarding against whom. And something was definitely off when he said that Bill is scheduled to go home for a week. He is a bit too formal, even for a banker. Also, do Junior Directors always oversee the holidays of apprentices?_

_You've been paying attention then, _says the crow._ No, that week at home is definitely not for Bill's sake. After all, nothing has happened to Bill, has it? Gringotts are investigating the possibility that Bill brought this attack upon himself. If they decide that he has the results for his career will be disastrous, and while the investigation will be nothing but thorough the eventual interpretation of the results can turn into a matter of internal Gringotts power play. _

Hermione is instantly feeling exceedingly bad for every unkind thought she's ever had about Bill Weasley. Even though that person wasn't Bill at all: _Goblins and wizards have a lot in common, haven't... we? _

_Oh yes. Now, Sirius is handling matters well, so far. Also, Gringotts will make a lot of money out of their confirmation of the ward readings. They might view leaving Bill alone as an investment into their working relationship with Master Black. _

Hermione is outraged. Her familiar is amused: _If you really want to cross swords with our financial friend, why don't you walk go over there and say hello? He can't see me here._

_Don't tell me goblins are also in awe of familiars, _Hermione says annoyed, but she's already extricating herself from her very squishy chair. Bill_ is _Ron's brother; if she can help him by showing off Krabat she will do just that.

_They just hate reminders that wizards are not just silly humans but magical creatures like them, _says the familiar and crows loudly, and his bonded witch fancies she can distinguish words in that sound. She'll have to think about that later. Now she walks over to Ron and links her arm with his, feeling remarkably silly as she does that, but the gesture works as intended. Sirius's face certainly lightens up with mischief: "Senior Teller Bloodaxe, I am honoured to introduce Hermione Granger, and her familiar Krabat."

Sirius calls her 'a friend of his family', which seems to mean something specific. Out of the corners of her eyes Hermione sees Ron's head snap her way; most of her field of vision is filled with incredulous goblin.

**Χ**

Ron takes a swig from his butterbeer and sighs: "That was awesome," he says. He sounds exhausted but happy.

Harry smiles: "I agree, Kreacher's butterbeer is amazing."

"Not the butterbeer, you prat," Ron starts berating Harry. Then he notices the elf who is refilling his goblet. "I mean, yes of course the butterbeer! The butterbeer is the best!"

"We really should have offered Bloodaxe some," says Hermione, thinking that Ron deserves a break.

The goblins, being goblins, were fast and efficient. They confirmed that an unknown witch or wizard had accompanied Ron into 12 Grimmauld Place, that that person was human, was probably not undead (though that part of the reading was still being debated), and inferred that he or she had spend the precious day in the Burrow, successfully impersonating Bill Weasley.

Once the readings were in, Arthur and Molly Weasley were notified. From there it went exactly as one might expect. Frantic parents, needing to be assured that their son was all right, not believing a mere report. The goblins had been helpful (for goblins), even though Arthur and Molly had not seemed to see that: No, Molly and Arthur could not speak to Bill (security was that tight) but a letter from him to them was already on the way. Yes, they had to investigate Bill for involvement, but the results of the investigation would be shared directly with him and with his parents. Bloodaxe went so far as to say that the investigation was only a matter of protocol.

Given how a goblin-human interactions normally went, this one was practically cordial.

As it became clear that Bill would suffer no consequences for having been a convenient face for somebody, Ron grew more and more morose. His own woes were bothering him again. His parents had floo'ed over, of course, and spend a long and loud quarter of an hour reassuring themselves that he was all right. And now Ron was despondent. His friends were perplexed: surely it was all right as long as Molly's wailing about her baby was in Ron's favour? Apart from being called a baby, of course, and the endless teasing he would later endure from the twins.

Harry began to discern what the problem was: between Molly's excessive emotions and Arthur's excessively cheerful unconcern, there was no talking normally to either of them. They were a two-headed, two-bodied passive-aggressive bully. They never even noticed how unusually lenient the goblins where, and goblins were proverbially difficult.

Mere moments before his parents arrived at 12 Grimmauld Place, Ron suggested that Krabat stays out of the way while they are there. He promised to explain that later. Hermione was confused. Krabat happily accepted Kreacher's offer of a jar of fresh eyeballs. Harry insisted on hearing why Arthur and Molly should not learn where all that unusual goblin goodwill was coming from (other than from the money Sirius was spending).

"My parents are not very traditional," Ron says apologetically. "They think that's all fairy tales. I know, because once I asked them what Fawkes was doing at Hogwarts and they said that Dumbledore is a great man and that nobody understands immortal creatures anyway. I'd hate for them to say something rude now. I mean, they are terribly worried about Bill."

Draco Malfoy had mentioned that some wizards choose to be progressive and disbelieve in familiar bonds. But Harry is beginning to think that the Weasley parents are tradiotional when it suits them and progressive when it doesn't. But he, Harry, was extremely lenient towards Draco yesterday, because Draco had been genuinely afraid for his family. Surely Ron deserves at least that. If nothing else, he has to deal with his parents' inconsistencies all the time.

Arthur and Molly, who neither know nor care that Ron is protecting them from themselves, are talking something over with Sirius. Right, Dumbledore. They expect him soon. Sirius wrote to him pre-emtively, before Arthur and Molly could demand that he or the Aurors were called. Sirius really wants s to avoid official embarrassment. Meanwhile, Remus is thinking that maybe, in light of recent events, they can negotiate a new alliance with Albus. A real one this time.

He has already said so to Sirius, who gave him That Look. Remus reminded his friend that alliances are based on mutual gain, not on sympathy.

**X**

Dumbledore is thinking along similar lines. He has decided that a gesture of goodwill towards the Blacks (as he calls the inhabitants of Number 12 to himself; Walburga would die again if she knew) is in order. He has therefore suggested that Arthur and Molly should meet him and Filius Flitwick at the Burrow, so that the two professors can check their wards as well.

**X**

The elder Weasleys are leaving. And Ron is staying. That's Harry's doing. He hinted (broadly) that poor, _poor _Hermione, with that unreasonably demanding French champion of hers, isn't seeing Ron at school any more. Can't he stay now, please, since she's stranded here as well? Harry is a honorary Weasley. He just has to ask. Ron is a Weasley. Whenever he tries to ask, Molly cries and Arthur pats her back and tells her that Ron "does not really mean to leave them."

Ron and Harry have just received official, embassy-issued invitations to attend Durmstrang. As exchange students with full scholarships and for as long as they want, but preferably for a whole year.

"Viktor's parents live in Bulgaria. Compared to that England and Durmstrang are practically next door," Ron says angrily and shakes his head: "I can't believe I did not realise it wasn't Bill."

Ron is switching from disappointment about Durmstrang to self-reproach about Bill, and back again. His friends disagree with the latter, but they also sense that he is still getting to the heart of the matter, and remain silent. Ron is sipping another butterbeer. Luckily, the homemade version is even lighter than the bottled one.

"I even said that he was not himself. What is wrong with me? Maybe they are right and I cannot be trusted to go anywhere alone. Mind you, Percy thinks I should go. He says it's a great opportunity for me and I should not let it pass. I mean, I am trying to make something out of myself. I really am."

Hermione tells him that the has been doing exceedingly well this year and that almost all professors are very pleased with him. Obviously, there's no pleasing Snape.

"The impostor, you mean. Another one. It's the big year of disguises. At least this one was a convincing actor. Wonder how long he studied the greasy git. Of course, Snape has no brothers who should notice that something was off."

Hermione knows instictively that Ron has just said soemthing extremely important. But why would that be the case?

"Maybe he was a she," she answers absent mindedly.

"Merlin! I hope not! Imagine, a woman turning into a man and it has to be the one who cannot even keep his hair clean!"

Hermione smiles and assures Ron that there are plenty of girls with unwashed hair in the world.

"No way! Your hair is nice and Ginny's hair is nice! Parvati's hair is especially nice, she puts something flowery into it, but I don't know what and Neville says it would be wrong if he helped me."

_Ron's smitten, isn't he_, Hermione thinks distractedly. She only manages half a smile in response, however. Why are brothers, or their absence, significant? Ron says something else about Parvati's hair, but Hermione barely hears it. Her thoughts are going round in a circle. _Snape has no brothers. Indeed, neither brothers nor family, nor relatives who talk to him, if she's any judge. Why is that important?_

"Hermione, are you all right," Harry asks concerned. _There used to be a time when glassy eyes and her ignoring direct questions meant nothing worse than an extra-inch of homework,_ he thinks wistfully.

"What? Oh, sorry. Do you know that feeling, when you are trying to figure out too many things at once and become utterly confused? Ron just said something really important, and I have no idea if it is about Bill, Durmstrang or Snape!"

Ron smiles and looks forlorn at the same time: "Sorry, I have no idea what I said. I guess I am really the useless one."

Harry explodes again. Quietly, but he does. He has to counts to ten before he trusts himself to speak: "Ron? What the hell are you talking about?" That sounded neither calm nor collected, he thinks. Should he have counted to twenty?

"My family," says Ron. "They are all special, don't you see? We are too many, like Draco used to say back when he was a git, but at least the others are special."

"This is the most astounding bullshit I have heard in my life. The M-word makes more sense than that! Ron, are you insane?"

Ron isn't and he'll prove it: "Hermione, tell him! He doesn't understand me!"

Hermione is staring at vacancy: "Yes?"

Ron thinks quickly and decides to hide behind Hermione. Figuratively speaking: "Hermione? Did something else happen?"

Harry tells Hermione that they cannot share their terribly important news with Ron, because Ron is too thick and won't understand them.

"I am right here! And you guys don't understand me at all," Ron cries somewhat redundantly.

Harry's voice is so cold it could liquefy oxygen: "No? Please enlighten us then. Your parents can be thoughtless but they adore you, as you very well know. Is it your brothers and sister? Each of them would die for you, as you would for them. Is it Hermione and me, or is it Nils and Viktor, who asked their Headmaster to invite you to their school?"

Ron is deadly pale: "I thought- I mean, Bill said-"

"Which Bill? The one who brought you here?"

"Yes, but he was still right. I found him looking at the family wall. The one with all our pictures? I found him there last night and told him about the invitation. I reckoned that if Bill liked the idea he could easily convince mum and dad. So he listened to me, all the while staring at the pictures, and then he suddenly turned and said that having so many kids was terribly expensive, and that he had always wondered about people like our parents. And it made so much sense when he said it, that that was the real problem. My parents are- they aren't well off. I mean, there's seven of us. Why should I deserve something extra when the others are perfectly happy?"

_Help, _Hermione thinks at her familiar. _That's not Ron! _

Krabat disagrees. He says that Ron always felt not having much money keenly, and always tried not to, as he did not want to hurt his parents' feelings, or appear ungrateful._  
><em>

_But how can he take what that person said to heart? That could have been anybody,_ she protests. _  
><em>

_The impostor was very interesting. But your friend should hear what you are thinking. Be nice, though. He's not being miserable because he likes it.  
><em>

"Ron. First, I want to apologise for being distracted right now. What was on my mind was important, but not that important. Second, I believe that you are wrong about two things. Money has nothing to do with it. The invitation from Durmstrang surprised your parents. I mean, with seven children they must have been thinking that there would be always one or two at home, and when you went and grew a foot taller in a couple of months they panicked. Are you with me so far?" Ron nods dazed. "The other mistake was choosing Bill as an intermediate. Your mum still hasn't forgiven him for living so far away, and would feel that he was trying to take you away, too."

She gives Ron a moment to wrestle with the enormity of that statement: His mother is disappointed with her perfect first-born. (And she's taking it out on Ron, but even though Ron needs to know that, he must realise it himself. The moment passes and Hermione follows with her second piece of advice: "You want to ask Percy for help with the exchange."

_Let Percy explain about opportunities and international cooperation,_ Hermione thinks to herself. _Poor Arthur and Molly won't know what hit them. They'll give in just to make him stop. _Actually, she is a bit mad with Ron's parents. She just put Percy onto them. But the idea is good, it will work.

Harry sighs with relief. He wholeheartedly agrees with the situation as described by Hermione, who did not loose her marbles after all, what is it with his friends today, she's looking distracted again! But Ron is clearly recovering, and wants to know if Harry also thinks that Perce-

Harry thinks all sorts of things and likes none of them. Maybe he, Harry, does not understand families? The Weasleys have been very good to him. For that, and for Ron's sake he will suspend judgement. What did Ron say? Yes, yes, Harry absolutely agrees that Percy will be able to sway their parents. Or talk them into submission, but who cares?

Meanwhile, Hermione is looking at the completed puzzle in her mind. Ron's remark about Snape having no brothers who would have noticed differences in his behaviour was the keystone, of course.

Hermione has figured out what happened to Severus Snape.


	22. The problem of the Wise Old Man l

**_Chapter 16, wherein people think for themselves, with mixed results_**

She needs to run her theory by somebody who knows more about Snape. That would be Sirius or Remus, but preferably both, though not Arthur or Molly, who are still sequestered with them in the green dining room, as Hermione finds out too late. And then she can't leave, for the Weasley parents seem eager to change topic – whatever it was that they were just talking about – or are they just glad to see her? Right, they missed her yesterday because she had been asleep, and Molly wants to know if "she's better now". Hermione has no idea how Sirius had excused her and what to say now, but Molly isn't actually listening to her answers, so nodding every now and then should do the trick. As it does. In rapid succession, Molly Weasley says how much she and Arthur worry about Bill, and how she hopes that the goblins will be reasonable, how much they worry about Ron, and how she hopes that he will come back to his senses, now that he is with his real friends, and please look after him dear, will you? She then disperses advice on dealing with Ron, drops some dark hints on young men in general, shares what her mother told her before her first major ball, and oh, is that a new pet, she has a cat already, Hogwarts students are only allowed one pet each, didn't you know that, dear?

Hermione, sensing that this time Molly expects an answer quotes the rule book: dorm mates may decide pet matters among themselves after first year, and "Lavender and Parvati and I are pretty much co-owning Crookshanks."

Molly takes that to mean that Hermione got a crow because they are not fashionable pets and she did not want to share this one as well. Hermione feels insulted on Lavender and Parvati's behalf, but Remus has already started complimenting the elder Weasleys out and towards the floo, so she says nothing. The moment the door closes behind the three of them them Sirius motions Hermione to sit: "I believe you have something you wish to share."

"I do. How likely is it that there was never any impostor and that Snape fabricated the evidence himself because for some unbelievably convoluted reason that makes sense to no-one but himself, he needed to disappear amidst the greatest possible uproar?"

If she puts her case that way, it sounds very week indeed.

"I take it you have good, logical reasons for thinking that," Sirius says neutrally.

"I wish," Hermione confesses, "but my reasoning is more along of the lines of _ a git like Professor Snape _would_ do something like that._"

"Really? Do tell."

"The short version goes like this: Bad things have been happening to Death Eaters. Severus Snape has disappeared. Therefore, Severus Snape is, or was, a Death Eater. And because he was another Death Eater who walked free, he must have been afraid that whatever befell the others had targeted him as well. So he disappeared. Under his own power, even though it does not look that way."

Sirius regards her for a very long moment before he answers: "You already have one important point right: Severus Snape was a Death Eater. Remus and I looked into the matter while you had your... Potions War, I think you called it. While it appears that Severus Snape is a free man, he is really under house-arrest at Hogwarts because of a deal Albus Dumbledore struck with Barty Crouch Senior. Albus testified that Snape had turned spy for our side over a year before the end of the war. Crouch Senior demanded an interrogation at court with details made public. They managed to agree on matters settled as you know them. They also agreed on keeping Snape's Death-Eater past a secret. Which throws a most disturbing light on the whole deal."

He checks himself and continues: "Obviously, if Snape really provided valuable information during the war, he deserved help afterwards. Though between you and me, I remember that time very well and whatever it was that he was doing, it was not helping the ordinary members of the order. The Death Eaters were picking us out one by one. But that's all ancient history now. But please continue."

"The most recent hint of Professor Snape's Death Eater past was that Professor Moody openly despises him and that Snape in turn was uncharacteristically meek around him."

"Alastor would," Sirius smiles. "I should have him over for tea when he's done teaching. I believe that he came out of his retirement because Dumbledore worried about Karkaroff. Who was a Death Eater, too, but stuck a deal with the Wizengamot."

"There seem to have been many such deals around the end of the war," Hermione says slowly. She is beginning to see why people might believe in magical justice, like the Goblet of Fire.

"Sirius, Hermione, you are still in here! Are you all right? I'll say, Arthur and Molly are good people, but they can be unbearable." Remus falls exhaustedly into a chair.

"I really need to have my study renovated," says Sirius, whereupon Remus and Hermione stare blankly at him. Sirius sighs and explains the time-honoured practice of receiving visitors in subtly uncomfortable dining rooms; at least until you decide you want them to stay. Unfortunately, receiving visitors in rooms that lack all amenities (such as chairs) is a tad too obvious.

"If Master will decide how he wants his study renovated, Kreacher can finish it in less time than it takes Kreacher to dress Master in the morning," Kreacher says reprovingly, while handing Remus a cup of strong sweet tea.

"Draco admired Harry's taste," Hermione mentions, feeling strangely and surprisingly mischievous. "He suggested you let Harry do the rest of the house as well."

"Draco admired Harry's taste?"

"The winter garden, to be precise. He had a lot to say on the matter but we weren't really listening. Something about the house needing bigger windows."

To everybody's surprise, the very uptight old elf approves: "Young Master Draco seems to have inherited the good taste of his great-great-great-great-uncle Sagittarius Black. Master remembers Old Master Sagittarius his portrait. It shows Old Master in his study, with Old Master his collection of antiques. Kreacher would like to restore Old Master his collection in the house."

The Current Master Black mentions that he has repeatedly asked his elf to furnish the house from the existing collection as he pleases, or, alternatively, tell him what new furniture to commission, and has always been ignored. Would Kreacher care to explain why he is suddenly eager to obey the merest hint of Sirius's cousin?

Kreacher won't.

"Very well, then. Kreacher, restore the collection of Uncle Sagittarius. All of it. I expect you to be done before the next guest arrives."

Kreacher bows respectfully and cracks away. Hermione asks if Sirius isn't asking too much of the very old elf and is treated to the history of the battle of wills raging between Kreacher and himself, but Remus interrupts his friend before he has to admit that he is most definitely not winning:

"What were you two talking about before Sirius got lost in interior design?"

Sirius grins mischievously: "Miss Granger thinks that the mysterious abductor of Severus Snape is none other than Severus Snape," he announces.

Remus quotes the last words of Julius Caesar and states that surely the world is having him on.

Hermione interprets the quote correctly and asks why Sirius thinks what she thinks, and why Remus disagrees. She would prefer having the same theory as Remus, whom she considers the more sound thinker of the dynamic duo, and Sirius may just know that, because he presents his arguments concisely and with an uncharacteristic lack of accompanying wit.

"The traces of Polyjuice in Professor Snape's private quarters were solid," Hermione repeats dumbfounded.

"Exactly. Model student that you are, you know that changing even secondary traits of potions, like taste, is not advisable. Let alone the state of the whole thing."

"But obviously it can be solidified, if the Aurors found shards."

"It's a highly complex Alchemical Process, a part, in fact, of the so-called Magnum Opus. Now, the Aurors seem to believe that that proves that Snape was abducted by somebody really dangerous. That would fit with the ward readings the Aurors have obtained, which show only Snape and our new best friend, the wizard who can hide his signature. But the ward readings would also fit with Snape having been the only occupant of his rooms. And I, unlike the Aurors, think that Severus has it in him to get pretty far in Alchemy. Maybe not so far as to become a Master, but far enough to produce a few shards."

"Why not so far as to become a Master?"

"Alchemists are thin on the ground. If Snape could prove himself as an apprentice to one of them, he would be working at some expensive secret laboratory somewhere in the world. He would not be teaching, which he hates."

That Hermione knows all to well, but she remembers something:"But Snape would not be able to accept such an offer if he's really on probation."

Gently, Remus explains that a dirty past, even a past as a Death Eater, would not stand in the way of employment as an Alchemist. Political asylum would be easy to arrange. Alchemists are that important, and that rare.

That tidbit derails the discussion somewhat. THen Hermione picks up her tale and recounts how Ron felt guilty about noticing how strange "Bill" had been, yet not realising that that person had not been his brother at all: "Snape seems to have no family, but he has been teaching at Hogwarts for over a decade. I cannot believe that Snape's colleagues of many years-"

Remus smashes his forehead and cries: "Of course! Minerva loves to bicker with Severus! She would have known immediately if he had changed in any way!"

McGonagall _loves_ bickering with Snape? Hermione could have sworn-

That she does not want to think about that. Ever.

"It's an important observation, and something else to tell Amelia, who strangely does not mind listening to my amateurish input," Sirius muses. "I understand that Snape did not change noticeably this year."

"I am fairly sure that Snape was himself during the Potion Wars. Afterwards... I asked Krabat to look into my memories for me, and he says that only a close relative of Snape's could have performed with such verisimilitude. His words, not mine. But I would not tell that to an Auror."

"Depends on the Auror," Sirius says thoughtfully. "It is good enough for me. But Moony is right, I am in many ways very old-fashioned indeed."

Hermione snorts: "And Arthur and Molly aren't. Right, I forgot, they are the most progressive of wizards. Why, Arthur can sometimes pronounce the word electricity."

"Ted does not like Arthur either," Sirius begins, but Remus stops that train of thought before it can start:"Everybody back on topic, please," he orders. "We were talking about Snape. You have made two not utterly implausible points in favour of a highly convoluted plot. Any idea as to why Snape would need to disappear that dramatically? And please no comments about him being a drama queen, even though his robes billow in closed rooms."

Sirius hesitates. Hermione doesn't: "Something is after Death Eaters who walked free at the end of the war. Something powerful."

**Y**

Albus Dumbledore is tired. When he and his charms professor visited the Burrow, they expected nothing more strenuous than having to recalibrate confused family wards. Instead they found that young Bill had updated the original wards. The new ones had been just good enough to realise that something was wrong with ...something, and to try to get a grip on the problem. In doing so, they had burned out completely. Re-warding the Burrow (they could not leave it like that, in good conscience) had been tedious, time-consuming work. And that had been before Albus had received an urgent message by the Minister of Magic.

This time Fudge had not soiled his under robes for nothing.

It was indeed the season for impostors. The last had been found in Azkaban. Dumbledore could barely think it, let alone say it aloud: The cell of Bellatrix Lestrange contained not her, but an _exquisitely_ made golem. The guards had only noticed, when it had finally stopped working. Albus thinks that it head been meant to last for as long as it did last. There are several magical signatures on it, and one of them belongs to a wizard who only left one when he wanted to.

Minister Fudge, the presence of this signature says, is welcome to beg Dumbledore to save him.

Cornelius _is_ begging. They agree that they public must not know for now.

Voldemort has returned, and he wants to play hide and seek. But for how long?

And he, Albus, must now talk to his most important weapon and to the people who won't let him wield it.

**Y**

Kreacher has moved the furniture, tapestries and portraits that used to adorn the study of Sagittarius Black, that master of superior taste, to the most appropriate room in the house. The family has moved houses between the time of Sagittarius and now, but Kreacher has decided which room will do best. It does not happen to be the study of Old Master Orion Black, but Kreacher will not see the – admittedly priceless – collection of Old Master Sagittarius presented at a disadvantage. Master Sirius will understand. Master needs encouragement, of course, but in the end Master always behaves as a proper Master should.

Kreacher his Master once again realises why he should never ask his uptight house-elf for anything without triple checking his own words. Master Sirius his uncle Alphard is laughing himself sick somewhere.

Kreacher has restored all of Sagittarius Black's collection, not just the old study. He has refurbished the entire house. Hermione cannot imagine how the old elf managed to do that in less than a day, but manage he did. _There must be more to thi__s, _she thinks_.__ Maybe specific items are spelled to know their place. Maybe the house is spelled to renovate itself. What a piece of magic that would be! Also__, the house looks __really __good now._

"It's as if the house was trying to look stern but secretly lets you know that that is just for show," says Harry, admiringly.

Sirius, too, is admiring the front parlour (The people he can leave to rot, er, to wait in here!) when his ward senses start to tingle. Somebody is approaching the house with intent to enter. And it's not somebody who can be conveniently forgotten in random parlours.

"Kreacher, Albus Dumbledore is on his way. Allow him to enter and lead him directly to my study, please. Remus, I think I'll handle this in the official manner. Harry, you and your friends had better stay out of sight as well."

**Y**

Dumbledore takes the proffered seat in Sirius's study, chatting as amiably as if he hadn't entered Number 12 Grimmauld Place on sufferance: "Sirius my boy, I trust I find you well. Let me offer my congratulations on your renovation. It was a matter of some general interest, as you probably know. In fact, I haven't seen such attention fixed on a private domicile since Myron Akeldama remodelled his gardens. It was a mixed success, I am afraid. We still don't know if the theme of his grand picnic was mermaids or dumplings. Your house on the other hand looks splendid."

Sirius accepts the compliments as if he had had anything to do with the furnishing of his own house and asks if Dumbledore has learned anything about the fake Bill Weasley. Confusion flickering across the old wizard's face tells him that that matter is all but forgotten. Great, Sirius thinks. More drama:"I see I am not up to date. How bad is it?"

"Almost as bad as it can be. Bellatrix Lestrange has escaped."

An unspecified amount of time passes. Sirius's first coherent thought is: this is how it must have been for the other when I escaped.

Dumbledore smiles sadly: "I am afraid Bellatrix will not turn out to have been innocent."

Not with well-documented cases of murder and torture attributed to her, and scores of witnesses for most of these acts. Never mind her own proud admission before the Wizengamot. "I should have thought security at Azkaban was tightened after last year," Sirius says frustratedly.

Albus informs him that proposals had been made, but once it was established that he, Sirius, had acted alone, it became very difficult to make people agree on one set of measures. The only definite change was that prisoners where now examined for being Animagi: "In a way, your escape has been accepted as an act of god. After all, you turned out to have been innocent. Nobody would say that in so many words, of course."

Sirius has been wondering at the amount of sympathy and interest that seems to be coming his way. He snorts and Dumbledore smiles a little before he continues his report:

"Bellatrix Lestrange not only left her cell, she also left a golem behind. That golem ceased to move last week, but since the Dementors had not acted out, the guards did not immediately think that she had died. She has been unresponsive before. This morning it was decided that she had never been unresponsive for so long and a group of guards, flanked by the Aurors who were on duty, entered her cell and found the golem. It has already been transported to the Department of Mysteries for a signature reading."

"But you already think you know who made it, " Sirius says tersely.

"There haven't been that many wizards who could create golems in the last hundred years," Dumbledore says in a mild tone of voice.

"One of them is sitting in front of me."

"Indeed, no. All I could ever do was a likeness. A fake corpse, if you will."

"That's what I meant, Dumbledore."

"I think you do not realise what a golem really is, Sirius."

"I think I know exactly what sorts of likeness that use human parts are documented, and which are legend," says Sirius hotly. "Or have you forgotten who I am, and that you tried to keep my godson out of my dark, bad and dangerous family library? Golems are likenesses. When made by a very skilled witch or wizard, they can pass as new corpses. They cannot, under any circumstances, move or talk. If there was one in Bella's cell, then it was put there when the guards thought she had gone 'unresponsive' again, and not years ago." Somehow he manages to calm down before adding that corrupt guards had to have been involved.

Dumbledore smiles his professorial smile and explains that no guards are missing.

"Intelligent corrupt guards, then," Sirius objects. "Obliviated guards, who cannot give anything away, not even under Veritaserum. Have their vaults been checked?"

"Alas, Gringotts is very slow to cooperate right now. Their being implied in the demise of Karkaroff by that article in the Prophet angered the director very much. Besides, I do not expect to find anything that way. There is more than one way to pay accomplices, and this was obviously well planned."

"Masterfully," Sirius says sourly. He does not want anything to do with Dumbledore, and yet, here he is again, discussing the common enemy. Damn common enemies, he thinks, for forcing you into the most displeasing situations. Alliances you did not want, for one thing:

"And you are telling me all this because it wont be made public for now but you think I should know it, in order to keep Harry safe."

This smile is more or less delighted: "Indeed, my boy."

Sirius decides there and then that he detests that form of address:

"While I should like to assume that you are simply senile, Albus, I need to ask this: why do you believe that there was more to this particular golem than a strong likeness to Bella and about a week of shelf life?"

"A ministry witch visited Azkaban ten days ago. That is to say, a witch with Ministry credentials but a name that no-one at the Ministry recognises. She wanted to inspect the high-security wing. She arrived alone, left her wand with the guard and inspected for almost three hours. One guard did notice how little affected by the Dementors she seemed."

"She walked and talked. That can't have been the golem. The golem must have come with the regular supplies for the imprisoned Death Eaters. Don' t look at me like that, Albus! You must know there is a supply chain for them. The survival rate of prisoners since the war could not be explained differently."

Also, the existence of a secret supply chain for Death Eatres makes sense of some of the taunts he used to hear while himself was still a prisoner; unfortunately, he cannot say precisely who it was who did the taunting. His memories of Azkaban are hardly reliable.

Dumbledore does not disagree openly: "There are not that many visitors to Azkaban, Sirius. Mostly it's Aurors who go there, and they are personally hand-picked by Rufus Scrimgour."

"Scrimgour was a superb Auror, but it was all fighting skills, not planning abilities. He's either blind to the problem, or he's being circumvented."

"Be that as it may, Sirius. We are talking about your cousin, and we are talking about an object far more noticeable than a supply of chocolate and nutrition potions."

Of course, Sirius thinks. Let's ignore the little problem of Death Eaters being kept alive, and the purpose of _that._

Dumbledore continues: "The only other visitor who might reasonably have been involved in Bellatrix's escape had been to Azkaban before you yourself broke out. Don't you see? The golem is able to talk either way, but if the exchange happened during that earlier visit, it is so durable that it is practically alive."

"Also, it can be tested for an Animagus form without giving itself away. Which is so unlikely it should be considered impossible. Besiedes, if it was the earlier visitor who did it, then Bella has been free for over a year without leaving a trail of dead. Which is not exactly in character either."

"Contrary to what most people believe, your cousin has self control. But maybe not that much of it," Dumbledore concedes.

All of a sudden, Sirius is feeling impatient. What is the point of discussing Bella's escape? (Especially as they are talking about the magic that made it possible. Even if Dumbledore is right about the golem, these things are incredibly hard to produce. Bella must have been harvesting material from her own body for years. Sirius really does not want to know how she did that.) If she's out there then the problem is to catch her. Which they won't do here, in Sirius's study. The problem, Sirius realises slowly, is that he is wondering what Albus might want when he should be thinking what he, Sirius, wants from Albus, and how to get it.

Apropos of nothing he also wishes he knew where things are in his new study. He could do with something sweet right now. His father used to keep assorted liquorice in the top left drawer. Mechanically he pulls that drawer and is surprised to find a tin.

"Lemon drop, Albus?"

"Why, yes, thank you, my boy. I had no idea you liked them."

Sirius had no idea either, and is pretty sure he has been pranked.

"Albus, much as I enjoy discussing the very extravagant escape of my cousin, I don't assume it is the sole reason for your presence here. As I have no idea where she could be. So, what is it that brings you to me when you are clearly needed elsewhere? Maybe whatever you wanted Remus to get for you from my library before he stopped cooperating? Which reminds me, did I tell you that my kid brother changed his mind about his master? He did, the little fool, and he tried to go out with a bang. He stole one of Voldemort's Horcruxes and left it here, but he died doing it, the idiot."

Sirius's little speech has exactly the effect he was aiming for. All signs of beginning joviality between the two wizards die, as Dumbledore turns pale and focused:"How much did your brother find out? Tell me everything about it."

Sirius smiles grimly: "Harry had better join us. He's the resident expert on Horcruxes."

**Y**

"Sirius, Headmaster. I left Ron and Hermione in the winter garden. Unless you want to talk to them as well," Harry says pleasantly.

(He does not say that he, Hermione and Ron are currently sharing a mental link. With a little help from the crow, Krabat, who claims that nosiness is a virtue. Aside from keeping his friends in the loop, this will enable Harry to honestly swear that he wont tell his friends anything. The three of them have spend ten minutes frantically discussing the exact words Harry should use, if Dumbledore demands a vow to ensure his silence.)

"Harry, it's good to see you. Recent events force me to burden you with knowledge that I had hoped to keep away from you for a little more. And now your godfather tells me that you already know my secrets."

"The headmaster wants to talk about Tom, Harry," says Sirius. "Or to the events that lead to Tom's existence. I believe we should start with his no longer being with us. The headmaster doesn't know that yet."

"What is it that I do not know, Harry, " asks Dumbledore, clearly shaken by the name 'Tom'.

Instead of an answer, Harry pushes his hair back. His scar is still there, but it is fainter that it has ever been.

"I would like to start with how you knew, and why you never told me that I had another person inside my head, Headmaster."

_Way to be respectful, mate,_ snickers Ron through the mental link.

"Harry. What on earth did you do," Dumbledore asks faintly.

So Harry tells the story of his invisible friend Tom, who started as a series of cheeky thoughts, suddenly turned into Harry's build-in tutor, and finally developed a death wish and departed.

(Harry omits any mention of Hermione, Ron insisted on that. Harry and Hermione had not intended to tell Dumbledore, anyway, but were still greatly surprised that Ron would demand proof of goodwill from the Hero of the Light before he trusted him with such information. Ron retorted that they still don't understand the magical world.)

Harry claims truthfully that he does not want to go into the details because the memory is highly personal. Then he tells his headmaster about the space made of his own memories, how he met his own parents there, how he saw himself and Tom being connected through something like an umbilical cord from head to head, and how Tom advised him to cut it.

Working the presence of Remus and Sirius into the Hermione-free edit was challenging, but absolutely necessary; Remus and Sirius must be able to back him up if Dumbledore starts disputing the experience.

_I think he believes us_, Harry thinks at his friends.

"That's enough for now," Sirius says firmly. He has taken note of the omissions and made the right guesses as to what they mean:"I want to know what Albus knew about that presence in your head, and why he did not deem it necessary to inform your guardian."

Dumbledore wisely decides to not question Sirius's eligibility as a guardian, or allude in any way to his mental state after Azkaban. Instead, he explains what Horcruxes are, how the diary that ended possessing Ginny alerted him to that particular explanation for Voldemort's continuing presence in the mortal plane, and how he began to examine the possibility that the distinct scar on Harry's brow contained another remnant of Voldemort's so-called soul.

"It was obvious that Voldemort was not possessing you, and on the surface it seemed that he was not influencing your character, either. I remember him well, the student he was, and you are everything he was not."

"I have two friends and no inclination to study," Harry says politely.

"You are a warm, open, and compassionate boy with no leanings whatsoever towards the dark, not even when you are being provoked," Dumbledore says grandfatherly.

"I never cursed anybody when they believed I was the Heir of Slytherin, you mean. I am glad that that stupid affair was good for something, then. Only, you were wrong, weren't you? Because Tom was in my head after all."

"I am telling you now what I believed, based on my experience with you. Last summer, I completed the construction of instruments that would have told me more about that. These instruments need blood to work, however, and so they were never finished."

Harry does not like the sound of that plan. Unless he misunderstood his headmaster. Did he?

Dumbledore sighs and explains that his instruments need blood from Harry and from as close a relative as possible. With the events after Sirius's escape, he had not found the opportunity to obtain that, and now that Harry lives with Sirius he does not expect that he ever will.

"You were going to visit my aunt and tell her what, exactly? I need your blood to ensure that Harry is not about to turn into a psychopath? Did you ever think how she would feel about that, how she would feel about having me under her roof? Aunt Petunia is already terrified of magic!"

Without being asked, Kreacher pops into the room and serves refreshments. Hoping that the elf has added a Calming Draught, Harry downs a glass of juice.

"Albus, all this is purely academic," Sirius says in the same pleasant tone Orion Black used whenever he was in a particularly foul mood. "Since you were wrong on every account, and since the soul fragment is gone anyway. Which you may choose to not accept, but we were there when it happened, and we do. I understand the need to make sure, I really do, but I will decide who performs Blood Magic on my godson, and how. And that wont be you. Albus, you are a headmaster."

Dumbledore smiles: "It's been a time since somebody put me in my place like that," he says, and his face is a challenge, for he is not just a headmaster, and Sirius knows it.

"Shall I read your Chocolate Frog Card out to you," Sirius asks. "You defeated Grindelwald. The card is glossing over your massive knowledge of the Dark Arts, but it's intended for kids, so we'll let that pass. You did unspecified alchemical work with Nicolas Flamel. The only detail it gives on that work is that you discovered the known uses of dragon blood. It mentions neither Blood Magic nor Healing. Politely said, Albus, what you do well is Defence against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and politics."

Dumbledore wouldn't dream of being offended, for he has not been listening to Sirius's little tirade at all. Instead he asks Harry if he can still speak Parseltongue and when Harry can't tell him, he conjures an adder.

"It's hissing," Harry says almost at once. "I have no idea what it wants, but I'd say it's not pleased to be here."

"Conjured snakes rarely are," Dumbledore says deep in thought, but he banishes the adder.

Harry hopes they did not disturb it too much, whatever it had been doing. He does not regret the loss. He has had exactly three conversations with snakes in his life and two had not been pleasant. _That boa at the zoo was funny, though,_ he thinks fondly. _I wonder if he made it home. I wish I'd known enough magic to send him there._

Sirius's thoughts are much less pleasant. He is pondering the question of what Dumbledore had planned for a young man with a soul link to Voldemort. One who had already survived a Killing Curse.

Sirius is glad they'll never know.

"I assume you have destroyed the locket," Dumbledore interrupts his musings.

"No," says Harry before Sirius can react. "We have secured it. It belonged to Salazar Slytherin, it should be with Gryffindor's Sword at the school."

**Y**

The locket lies open on a slab of granite. Something that looks like moss is growing around it, and beginning to crawl on the cut crystal covering it.

"We will need a new crystal soon," Sirius comments. "This one will soon burst under the strain."

"We need to destroy the locket as soon as possible," Dumbledore insists. "We cannot afford to keep it around. Harry, it is to your credit that you want to preserve Slytherin's locket, but Voldemort's most faithful and most dangerous servant is out there and looking for him. When she finds him, she will restore him to a body. We must try to cut his tethers to this world before that happens."

Harry ponders that.

(_Ask him, _Hermione insists_. Ask him if he can't destroy the Horcrux without destroying the locket. T__h__e __two__ do not belong together __like body and soul do;__ there must be a way._)

Harry asks.

Dumbledore hesitates but says that he can think of nothing but Fiendfyre.

"And where do you propose to use that," Sirius asks testily. "And how are you going to explain it to the ministry? Fiendfyre is one of the things they notice, as you very well know."

"The ministry, yes. Yes indeed. Maybe you are right and we should avoid them. We could try to retrieve the sword of Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat might give it to Harry again."

"Is there nothing else, Headmaster? All that magic, and there is absolutely nothing that calls death?"

Both Dumbledore and Sirius stare at Harry.

"What an odd choice of words, Harry," Dumbledore says cautiously.

Harry admits that he's thinking about the tales of Beedle the Bard. He's not lying: _calling death_ was Hermione's choice of words, but it did remind Harry of the book, which he read the other night, after Draco and Hermione had mentioned it in their little battle of wills. Apparently, it was the right thing to say.

"I suppose," Dumbledore starts tentatively, stops, and starts again: "That is to say, I cannot imagine... But it's worth a try, if only to make sure that it was not possible. Yes, we should try it. It won't hurt. We should know if it can call as well as hide. If it can... If you can..." He looks intently at Harry,

(_Is it just me or did you just go back to being a secret weapon, Harry,_ Ron asks concernedly.)

"It was very clever of you to think of it," Dumbledore says now, sounding much like a cat that has found somebody's knitting supplies. "Very, very clever of you. It is true, your invisibility cloak is _the_ Cloak of Invisibility. It is only one of the Hallows, of course, and a Master of Death requires all three... ."

And somehow (maybe by way of the dueller's instinct his Durmstrang friends admire) Harry realises that Dumbledore knows a lot about the called Deathly Hallows:

"You know where the other's are, don't you, sir," he asks in awe and surprise, and for that one moment Dumbledore sees the trusting twelve year old who had just saved the Philosopher's Stone and answers truthfully, as he should have back then: "I know where one of them is, Harry."

Understandably, Sirius is startled to hear that admission, but not as dumbfounded as he is one moment later, when Dumbledore pulls out the Elder Wand and places it reverently on the desk.

Sirius stares at it as if it were the world's most poisonous snake. Harry almost expects him to throw Albus and his wand out of the house; his godfather's face and stance clearly says that he wants to do just that, but for whatever reason, he pulls himself together. He does not explain his attitude, he only orders Kreacher to carry the stone tablet and locket into the "basalt room" and Harry to fetch his cloak and meet him and the headmaster in the basement.

**Y**

The basalt room is where members of the Black family go when they want to play with fire. Located in the lowest level of the house, it looks much like a stylised version of a stone circle. In other words, it looks absurd, but as in-house magical laboratories go, it is safe.

"What do we do now," asks Sirius.

Dumbledore refers to Harry.

"We need to remove the crystal, obviously. And then we could... I think we should cover the locket with the Cloak and lay the wand on top of it."

(That is Krabat's suggestion.)

_Are you sure we do not need to call death, _Hermione asks her familiar.

_Mortals never need to_ call_ death, my dear, _says the crow, but he sounds like at least two crows, like a whole murder, all of them speaking at the same time, and surprisingly still making sense.

Hermione bites her lip:_ Why did you want me to come, I was seeing very well through Harry's eyes. _The bird insisted. To her very great surprise, he can hold the mental link to her friends while Hermione has faded._  
><em>

_Seeing death and being in the presence of the death is hardly the same thing, _comes the answer, and Hermione simultaneously wants to strangle her know-it-all familiar and cow in a corner.

Sirius clearly hates removing the crystal that contains the evil radiance of the locket. _Evil,_ Hermione wonders. But yes, this must be what pure evil looks like, and it is reaching for the occupants of the room. Slowly.

_Get that cloak, _she silently screams at Harry._ Cover it!_

The silvery fabric rains down, extinguishing the radiance. No, not quite: It is still there, she can see it trying to escape, but she can also see the next step:

_Take the wand and banish it, touch the cloak with the wand, do it now Harry!_

Slowly, Harry takes the wand from Dumbledore.

Slowly he points it at the cloak. Sickly green vapour is sucked into the wand. No new vapour rises.

Slowly, Harry kneels and touches the silvery fabric with the Elder Wand. The tip flares like the finger of an annoyed angel.

The crows say:_ Look, Hermione. Look at death._

The basalt room is full of shadows. They all move at once towards the centre of the floor, leaving bright light in their wake.

**Y**

What Harry really wants to do now is to join his friends. What he does is returning into Sirius's study with the two older wizards, calmly sit there and calmly drink a cup of tea. As if the floor of the basalt room didn't now sport too many cracks to be ever used again.

Not that any of the occupants of the room (seen and unseen) had harboured doubts about the destructive power of a Horcrux.

The only surprise is that the locket is unharmed. Since Harry is no longer a Speaker, they haven't closed it again. Not that anybody is interested in the locket right now.

"Harry, my boy. If you have read the story, you have know about the Master of Death, and that that is a role that only a select few would be able to assume. I have long wondered about the kind of person who could. After... in my misguided youth, I believed that if could collect all three Hallows I would be able to master them. When I discovered that your father, the last descendant of the Peverells, owned the Cloak I was tempted, but ultimately I had to admit that I was not fit to possess any Hallow but the wand. And possessing it is not what I am doing, not really. If it has a mortal master then I am not him. I have been thinking, however, that you might prove to be different. I have made many mistakes, and some of my worst have been about your family, but the insight with which you handled the hallows and the Horcrux makes me hope that I am right."

_Too bad it was mostly Hermione's insight, _says Ron._ Sorry mate. _

_Don't apologise, _Harry answers_. I'd enlighten Dumbledore, but-_

_First we need to know why he's hell bent on dragging you into his dealings with Voldemort,_ Ron finishes the sentence for him.

_I admit that I am curious about that_, says Harry, and Ron snorts; then he tells Harry that Sirius appears to want to talk to their headmaster alone, and Ron is right, so Harry makes his excuses and gets ready to leave.

"Harry, about your friends," starts Dumbledore.

"Harry understands that this must stay a secret," Sirius states in his best that-was-not-a-question voice. the knids wont talk about it to anybody else, he is sure. Never mind Albus's strange aversion to friendship for now. He and Albus have business that must indeed stay between them. Harry closes the door and Sirius fixes Albus with a glare:

"Let's get back to the problem that brought you here, shall we Albus? Fudge wants to keep Bella's escape secret for now. For the time being the general public is safe from Bella, who will be busy finding her beloved master and fully restoring him to life. Also, the general population does not stand a snowflakes chance in hell if any of them meets Bella by mistake. So there's really no point in frightening people. Also, making her escape known would not only cause a panic, it would also plunge respect for the current administration from its all-time-low to lower still. Not something we want, I am sure."

Dumbledore nods for Sirius to continue.

"Not now at any rate, with Voldemort on the move. And not just him. Why don't we count the various groups? The first group are the more-or-less faithful. For them you had Cornelius. A minister with brain, or a backbone, or both would have attracted the attention of the Death Eaters. He or she would have kept them alert, and you wanted peace to do its trick and let them slide back into their own lives each."

No objections from Dumbledore.

"That worked pretty well. After Voldemort's non-demise, many of his more important followers used connections they had through him to forge their own little fiefdoms. People like Karkaroff. They have not eschewed blood purism, but they believe more in themselves than in their old master, and right now would prefer him to stay a useful wraith.

You know that Voldemort's first step will be to bring these people to heel. Your particular problem is that your spy has been associating with too many of them. Voldemort will suspect him. Also, Voldemort will distrust anybody who stayed with you at Hogwarts for as long as Severus did. When Voldemort returns, he might kill him Severus on sight. So you and Severus agree on the very extensive charade of abduction by impostor. But how did Severus convince you to do that now? Hogwarts being closed down for safety reasons in the middle of an international tournament? Oh, I see. The negotiations for the Triwizard. Fudge's lackeys must be worse than everyone assumed, if you don't mind causing international bad press for his administration."

"I wouldn't have agreed, actually, if sending Severus away hadn't been desperately urgent. As to Cornelius's administration, I can say without reservations that it has left his mark," Dumbledore answers wearily. "Some of it was my fault. He used to be harmless... That is to say, I used to be his main advisor, but I lost control of him."

"Understandably. Vain fools like him need constant babysitting, if they are to remain harmless. Now, back to Severus. Ideally, you need him on the spot before another, a truly faithful servants finds Voldemort. Peter for example. Isn't wonderful how we've all stopped underestimating little Peter Pettigrew? I hope he's proud, wherever he is.

The other reason Severus could convince you to move now rather than later, is that when yours truly escaped from Azkaban, you were reminded of the existence of that place. You were then extremely surprised to find out that prisoners who weren't former Death Eaters were dying at the normal rate, that is after six to twelve months, whereas Voldemort's followers were still alive after a decade. The solution to that riddle is corruption, of course. Voldemort had known that his followers might find themselves inconvenienced, and planned accordingly. You of course want to rectify that, and this is where you hit the formidable problem known as Lucius Malfoy."

"One little correction, my boy," Dumbledore interrupts him. "I noticed the discrepancy in life expectancies when Cornelius sentenced poor Hagrid in Harry's second year. As a matter of fact, that was what put my lingering doubts about you to rest. That you were also still alive."

"Then there was one intelligent argument for my being a Death Eater. I confess that I am pleased."

Dumbledore smiles, but it is a sad smile. There will be no real second chance for him here.

"Lucius," Sirius continues. "Ostensibly, Lucius is the model of the truly 'former Death Eater'. He has used the power vacuum after Voldemort's fall well, the blood purists are practically bowing to him. But he is also financing the support network for those who are in Azkaban. Maybe he does it because he can afford it, and because it keeps the prisoners' families in his debt. Risky, but sensible, in its way. But then he goes and gives Ginny Weasley the Horcrux diary. Maybe the power got to his head. Whatever it is, Lucius is a problem in his own right. And he's planning something even bigger, or else why would he remove his son from Hogwarts? Severus claims that he has no idea what his friend is planning and convinces you that he really needs to go. You agree. Snape must race to find Voldemort before Lucius does. Incidentally, do tell him that people who know far less than I do have guessed what he's doing."

Here Dumbledore gives him the satisfaction of blinking: "That's distressing to hear. May I- no, you won't tell me, I can see that. Then you believe that Severus is in no danger from these people; you only mention them as a warning. If they can guess what happened then others will as well. That's possible, but I still believe that it could not have been done without privileged information. If they do not know what you know, then- Ah! It is Severus whom they know."

"That narrows the group of suspects down down nicely, doesn't it?" Sirius says dead-pan. Dumbledore on the other hand is once again twinkling. Why is Dumbledore twinkling?

"I wouldn't have thought anybody but me knows him," Dumbledore says happily, "but it appears that Severus has re-entered the world of friendly human interaction. How delightful. I dare say he doesn't know he has a friend. Well, well. Your news are good news, after all."

Sirius promises himself on the spot that if Snape comes alive out of this, Sirius will tell him that Dumbledore has _discovered_ his hidden friendship with Miss Granger.

"And speaking of good news," Albus continues, "when I entrusted my little plot to Amelia Bones, she said the most colourful things, but she gave me clearance after the fact. Of course, she realises that the attack on her home was neither my work nor Severus's."

"I'll take your word for that," Sirius says drily. "So, Snape departs. And suddenly, two things happen. First, Lucius ends up under house arrest, and with his finances confined. The support network will die without him. Second, Bella breaks out. That could be a mere, if frightening, coincidence. But Lucius's reaction to his confinement looks a lot like him bowing to the rising sun. Or to his old master. But if his old master is back on the scene, then he will make use of the prisoners of Azkaban. Sooner or later, but Bella's breakout and the loss of Lucius's support make it look like it will be soon. Probably really soon."

"Indeed, they will die without that support." Dumbledore agrees. "The problem is this, Sirius: Karkarrof's death, as proven by the gruesomeness of it, and the public setting in which it happened, have _Voldemort_ written all over them. These were his methods, and so it must be another of his old networks that accomplished that. This is why I allowed Severus to leave as soon as it was possible, before I knew for sure that Tom himself was back. A network that includes goblins is the worse thing that could happen. Severus must find them out."

Sirius wonders fleetingly why Dumbledore keeps switching names for Voldemort.

"Malfoy was unforeseen, and he worries me greatly. But the situation now is so much worse than I thought it was. The Death Eaters will be broken out of Azkaban. They have no comfortable lives to loose. The moment Voldemort is fully restored to life they will will rejoin him, and that must not happen," Dumbledore says forcefully. "Especially not now. The ministry is crumbling from inside. We will be living in terror before spring is over."

_Then we'll see to it that they wont_, Sirius thinks but does not say. He can't say it. Why can't he, he wonders. They are talking about Voldemort's Death Eaters. Murderers, no: monsters, the lot of them.

_Idiots who got caught, low level flunkies who weren't rich enough to buy themselves out,_ his treacherous mind insists.

_They are far from worthless,_ Sirius argues with himself. _Their master created an artful support system, just in case one of his followers could not avoid Azkaban. That's how important they are. _As an afterthought he adds: _though he probably never meant to leave them in there for such a long time._ That must be true. Surely Voldemort never meant to loose his body and most of his powers. Even if he planned for the possibility of temporarily loosing half his army to the Ministry of Magic, and to Azkaban. That's the mind boggling part. _There is no second-guessing minds like that,_ Sirius admonishes himself.

"I don't suppose we can move them to Nurmengard," Sirius jokes feebly. He does not know that Albus Dumbledore feels another pang of regret, about the student he did not trust and the friend he lost, who, it turns out, cannot easily agree to cold-blooded murder. Even though lives may depend on it.

Dumbledore's regret is misplaced. It is not morals alone that keep Sirius from saying that yes, he will go to Lucius Malfoy and find out what he knows, dispose of the support system, or, more insidiously, use it to dispose of the prisoners at last.

They must be getting food and potions. They must trust the people who give them these potions, trust them blindly, for they are still living in hell, and the clandestine support from outside is their one lifeline. And trust, as any Black knows, can be used.

But this particular Black is feeling as if thousand years worth of recorded family are shouting at him to stop. Being. Blind.

He wishes he knew what they mean, exactly.

The ministry is crumbling from inside, Dumbledore said.

...no, it is not morals that keep Sirius back. It is the fact that he _can_ second-guess a mind like Voldemort's, at least when it comes to realising that Voldemort has switched tactics. If Dumbledore is right then Bellatrix, Voldemorts most devoted, and one of his most able followers, has been free for months. Yet all Voldemort seems to be doing is creatively punishing former followers, who thought they'd help themselves to some of the power he had amassed. The Voldemort of the seventies would not have done that.

That is not to say that the Voldemort of the seventies may not reemerge yet.

But in the meantime, Sirius will not repeat the mistake that cost him half his real family and blindly do what Albus Dumbledore wants him to do.

"The Death Eaters will not leave prison alive," he promises, and he means it.

Maybe that will be achieved by the equivalent of a large dose of rat poison, as Albus thinks it must. But right now Sirius is thinking about international cooperation. And that a Black should be able to invite a couple of really distant cousins for tea.

**Y**


	23. Interlude: Terrible, great, in hell

_After Hallowe'en 1981 _

_For the longest time, the world consisted of pain, and nothing but pain. What was he feeling that pain with, in the absence of a body? How did he know he was alive anyway?_

_Lord Voldemort (né Riddle) was not asking either question. He could not. He was quite unable to think._

_A moment of clarity came and passed like lightening, followed by more pain. Then another clear moment. Many moments of clarity. Like stars in a cold winter sky, they provided little light and no warmth. _

_At some point he realised that the moments of clarity happened when he chanced upon small animals and possessed them, and that the moments ended when the strain to think human thoughts destroyed the tiny animal brains. _

_Then the deer he had used for that insight died as well._

_Luck helped. Somehow, he found a bird. Somehow, he managed not to kill it while it took him to the next human, but he drove the human into madness when, in his impatience, he forced thoughts of arcane disciplines into a mind that had never heard of the most basic magic. _

_Somehow, one fact stayed with him: in order to think properly, like somebody who is awake and focused, not like a sleeping person, he needed a living brain. A ruddy organ. Weak flesh. _

_And he needed it. _

_(Much later he will say drily that spectacular new magic, such as surviving the loss of one's body, comes with with spectacular new problems. He will remember the well-known alchemical basic that some phases – such as gaseous forms – are more volatile than others. But he's not there yet, not by a long chalk.)_

_Luck remained moderately helpful. As he had chanced upon mice and boars, he chanced upon a nursing home. Old and decaying minds. Just the place to perfect his light touch, or so he thought._

_In reality it turned out to be the single most frustrating experience in his existence._

_The problem was not that possession is nothing like the Imperius; that possession is an agreement between two parties. That he would have to offer his intended host something, and hope that it would be accepted, and if it was accepted, the host and he would have to agree on _terms.

_The next problem was that all these people wanted was ...death. Preferably after their respective kids had been there one last time, but if that was not possible, then tonight (in their sleep) would do as well. If he could grant them that, he was welcome to their brains._

_They finally agreed on nice, sugary, and well-crafted hallucinations. (Voldemort could not start decimating nursing homes. At the state he was in, even the attention of muggles was dangerous.)  
><em>

_Picture a nineteen seventies student, stack of punched cards in hand, waiting in line for his little program to be fed to the one, huge, slow computer on campus. Picture Lord Voldemort, snatching happy memories out of the minds of people, not to use them for torture, but to make up waking dreams of big family reunions. All the while trying to snatch some brain activity for his own thoughts. _

_Luck enjoyed the joke for a year or two, then put a visiting teenager in his way. Also with an appreciation for hallucinations. Of course, Voldemort fled the nursing home. Of course he latched onto the first whiff of magic he got outside. Having put his time in hell to good use, he now navigated minds until he found a suitable long-term host. (That process included no journeys to distant countries, no matter what Albus Dumbledore would later tell a confused twelve-year old.)_

_Luck, witnessing his next choices, briefly acquired the human anatomy required for a long-suffering sigh. _

**Ψ**

The inhabitants of Nr 12, Grimmauld Place finally manage to exchange Christmas presents. Like every year, Hermione gets a big pile of books. Like every year, she starts with the one that seems to be most relevant for school. That would not be the slim, cream-coloured volume about the magical history of Mont-Saint-Michel, that impressive Norman abbey that inspired her meaningful nightmares during third year. That book has nothing to do with school whatsoever. Strange then that it finds its way into her book bag. That it is older and more valuable than the books Hermione gets as a rule. That she somehow never wonders who it is from.

(And Hedwig glares at the barn owl that delivered it until he gives her up as a lost cause and departs from the story. The borders between the worlds are barely there, this time of the year, and it's the mischievous ones who cross over first. Hedwig is right to be on her guard.)

The story of the bishop and the angel begins just like the one Hermione already knows, but goes on quite differently: now it says that the bishop _did_ collect the materials to build the church, but seeing the plans his architects showed him, decided that they weren't good enough. That nothing made by mere mortal men could ever be good enough, and that the archangel had accepted the truth in his words. That he had then, with a burning fingertip, written the First Spell onto the bishop's forehead. Thereby granting him magic, with which to finish his task.

**Ψ**


End file.
